Koenig in Spite of Himself
by miknnik
Summary: A new case takes Rick and A.J. to unfamiliar cities.
1. Chapter 1

Rick Simon looked up from the paperwork he'd been tackling with most of the morning to spy on A.J. His brother was taking a break at his desk sipping a cup of coffee, totally engrossed in the world of another 87th Precinct novel by Ed McBain.

Seeing his younger sibling enjoying his favorite pastime knowing full well he was suffering made him mad, but when he spoke, he carefully kept a neutral tone, "Hey, A.J.?"

"The answer is still no, Rick."

The sanctimonious little twerp didn't even look up, his nose still buried in the book.

"Oh, come on, A.J.!" Rick got out of his chair and strode over to the other side of the office. He perched on A.J.'s desk and asked in a grave tone their father had often employed to give him a lecture, "How many times have I bailed you out when you were in a tight spot?"

"Not as often as I've bailed _you_ out, and more often than not, you were the reason that I was in trouble in the first place," came an insolent reply. A.J.'s eyes finally left—reluctantly—the pages of the book and met with Rick's. "As I recall, I offered to help you with your tax return not just once but several times. Did you take up my offer? _No-o-o-o_! You chose to go with Carlos' second cousin who promised you a fat refund. You should ask him to help you with the audit."

"I would if I could, but he's unreachable. Even Carlos doesn't know where he is."

"Gee, I wonder why," smirked A.J. "It's about time you learned that every risky behavior has its consequences, and that you're ultimately responsible for your own action since you're an adult—in the chronological age anyway."

On that stinging note, A.J. returned to his book dismissing dejected Rick.

"Is that the way you respect your older brother?" Rick gave it another shot.

"Is that the way you set an example for your younger brother?"

All that talking and begging had been futile, so the only thing left for Rick was to let his action do the talking.

"Hey, what're you doing?"

A.J. screeched when Rick snatched the book away from his hands.

"How can you sit there and read like everything's peachy when your own brother's having a major crisis?"

"Give me that back!"

A.J. jumped out of his chair to get his book back, but Rick quickly raised it above their heads, just barely out of his brother's reach.

"You scumbucket!" A.J. screamed in frustration.

"Oh, that really hurts." Rick chuckled at A.J.'s utterance that had been one of his toy phrases for his older brother during their fights while growing up. "You gonna help me now?" asked he fending off his younger and shorter brother.

"No! And you're not helping your case!" A.J. shot back. "Just give me my book back, or else!"

"Or what?" teased Rick.

"Ahem!"

The brothers froze. They had been so preoccupied they had not noticed their mother standing at the door. That alone was bad enough, but to their embarrassment, an old woman in her sixties or seventies was by her side with a hint of a smile.

Rick let his hand that held the book fall to his side. A.J. snatched back and pressed his precious possession against his chest like a miser clutching a bag of money.

"I was telling Mrs. Crenshaw how you two are running a very successful investigation business," said Cecilia Simon with an icy stare of disapproval. She was clearly chagrined by her sons' immature and unbecoming behavior in front of her elderly companion.

"Mrs. Crenshaw?" Rick mumbled frowning. The name had an oddly familiar ring to it.

"You probably can't recognize me. It's been a long time," chuckled the old woman with a twinkle in her eye. "You certainly have grown to be a nice young man, but I see you still have that little mischievous boy inside."

"You don't have to be so polite, Mrs. Crenshaw. A boy from the fifth-grade teachers' hell was more like it." Cecilia corrected her.

"Mrs. Crenshaw!" Rick exclaimed, eyes wide with horror brought on by recognition.

Rick's former teacher turned her gaze to A.J. "You were still in kindergarten back then, but your mother often brought you with her to our, shall we say, emergency meetings when Rick was in my class."

Rick's fifth-grade teacher! No wonder he looked so panicky. A.J.'s face began to break into a vindictive smile.

"You were such a sweet little angel, always quietly waiting for your mother reading your picture books, and she's right—you haven't changed much, dear," said Mrs. Crenshaw eyeing the book A.J. was hugging protectively.

A.J.'s smile vanished as he heard his brother's derisive snicker.

"You're probably wondering why I brought Mrs. Crenshaw here," said Cecilia.

"That crossed my mind." Rick muttered.

"We bumped into each other at a grocery store this morning and got to talking. Her husband of eight years passed away recently."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crenshaw."

The Simon boys offered their dissonant condolences.

"Thank you, but he endured a four-year battle against the illness he could not recover from and was ready to let go." Mrs. Crenshaw smiled sadly. "But that's not the reason I wanted to see you..."

Cecilia took over when the old woman lapsed into silence. "While sorting her late husband's belongings, she found something puzzling. It's led her to believe he might not have been who he'd claimed to be."

Mrs. Crenshaw nodded and said to the Simon brothers, "I'd like you to find out to whom I've been married for the past eight years."

_Mrs. C's been married to someone with a shady past?_

Rick grinned inwardly, but before he could express his interest in this work, Cecilia spoke up. "I told her what you do for a living and offered her your service. You at least owe it to her, Rick, as atonement for your sins."

"You did what?" Rick didn't mind taking the case but not for free especially when an IRS audit was looming on the horizon.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of asking you to work for me without compensation, Rick," intervened Mrs. Crenshaw. "I actually have kept your career achievements in a scrapbook. You and your brother have an excellent reputation in your trade."

_Keeping track of my career achievements, huh? Like you used to keep tabs on me_, thought Rick warily.

"I'd appreciate it very much if you two could spend some time on my query to see what you can come up with."

A.J. turned to Rick and said demurely, "I'm game if you are."

This was too good an opportunity to pass up. He hoped Mrs. Crenshaw would provide some juicy tidbits on his brother from way back when on the side.

Rick had already made up his mind but took his time to reply.

"Okay, sure." He finally responded. "When would you like us to start?"

"How about right away?"

Mrs. Crenshaw had always been a no-nonsense, cut-to-the-chase kind of woman, Rick recalled with a sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

The Simon brothers followed Mrs. Crenshaw's Oldsmobile to her residence. She had a small but tidy bungalow in a quiet neighborhood. As she opened the front door to let them in, a calico cat ambled over to see what her biped servant had brought home.

"That's Mimi." She informed the brothers smiling at her longhair cat that was rubbing her body against A.J.'s pant leg purring. "It's so nice to have someone to come home to, especially after losing George..."

Being an animal lover, Rick bent down to pet the cat but quickly withdrew his hand when she hissed and swiped at it.

"Aaargh!" He yelled as Mimi attacked him sinking her claws on his jean-clad thigh.

"Oh, I'm sorry," apologized Mrs. Crenshaw picking up the calico. "I should have warned you—she's a bit skittish around strangers."

"No kidding," said Rick glaring at the cat. "I'm more of a dog person anyway."

"You know what they say about animals and children—they are good judges of character," said A.J. smugly.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room, Rick sipped a cup of coffee Mrs. Crenshaw had insisted on serving and mused over the unexpected turn of the events. He never could have imagined he'd be working for his former teacher he used to terrorize.

"As I said, Mrs. Crenshaw, we'd like to ask you some questions before we start our investigation," said A.J. seated next to his brother.

Getting the nod of her approval, he continued, "What is your husband's full name, and when and where did you first meet him?"

"George Frederick Koenig. We met here in San Diego about eight and a half years ago."

"Koenig? Did you change your last name when you got married?" Rick joined in the conversation putting the coffee cup down on the saucer.

"You know me, Rick, I'm very old-fashioned and intended to change my last name, but George talked me out of it claiming it was too much work and a waste of time. But now, I wonder if he had other reasons…"

"Do you know where he was from originally?" asked A.J.

"New York City. He tried to shed his New York accent to blend in, but whenever he let his guard down, he'd pronounce 'forest' fah-rest, or call my purse 'pocketbook.'" The corners of her mouth curled up almost imperceptibly, but the smile was gone as soon as it appeared. "Do you think he was lying about that too?"

"It's hard to tell at this point, but probably not," said A.J. "You said he'd revert to a New York accent if he wasn't careful. That means he spent his formative years there, or in one of the outlying cities, or possibly in the neighboring states."

"I suppose he told you he had no family," said Rick. Seeing the retired teacher nod to confirm his assumption, he asked. "Do you remember anything he said that might be tied to his past? Anything at all?"

Mrs. Crenshaw was silent for a while trying to recall some details from the recent past, which was becoming increasingly harder nowadays. The brothers were aware of the effects of aging and waited patiently.

When she finally spoke again, she sounded uncertain, "During the last stay at the hospital, he was in and out of consciousness because he was on powerful pain medications, but a few days before his passing, he had some lucid moments. One day, I was by his bedside, and all of a sudden, he opened his eyes and said very clearly, 'Martha, I've got to go back.' I thought he meant going home, but he said, 'No, I must go back to Dusky's. I owe it to Rainy.'"

"Does that mean anything to you?" asked Rick.

She shook her head. "He seemed lucid, but he could have been hallucinating. I'm not sure he was talking to me—he was looking past me when he said that."

"Anything else you'd like to add?"

With a nod, she said, "He knew he was dying and made necessary arrangements several months before his death. He requested cremation, no service—he was very adamant about that though he knew it wasn't what I wanted. He also asked me to donate the money I would have spent for his funeral to a hemophilia research organization."

"Was he hemophiliac? Is that the cause of his death?" asked A.J.

"No. He died of lung cancer."

The old woman's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. A.J. took her hand in his and said, "I'm sorry to ask such intrusive questions, Mrs. Crenshaw, when you are still grieving."

She just shook her head. "That's all right—you're only doing what I asked you to do. I'd demand you do your job if you pussyfooted around me."

She attempted to smile at the brothers, who were looking at her as if she were a fragile, invalid patient. "If you're done with your questions for now, I'd like to show you some documents I found in George's safe deposit box."

When they nodded their heads in silence, she excused herself and disappeared into her bedroom. She returned with a bundle of paper tied with a string.

"I didn't even know he had a deposit box. I found the key and the paperwork for it in one of the locked drawers of his roll-top."

She placed the bundle on the coffee table, and Rick took the first piece of paper on the top of the stack. It was just a sheet from a ruled legal pad, torn in half. There were only two lines scribbled on it.

"Benson Hotel Room 4418. May 25, 2:00 p.m." Rick read it aloud. "Is this your husband's handwriting?"

She nodded. "It's not too uncommon a name for a hotel. I'm sure there are scores, if not hundreds, of Benson hotels across the country," said she. "I wouldn't know where to start to look for it if I wanted to find it, but I wonder if it's worth the time and effort."

Rick turned over the piece of paper, but the back was blank.

A.J. reached for another document. It was a clipping from some newspaper's obituary section. One of the announcements was circled. It bore the name of Mrs. Crenshaw's deceased husband, but this George Koenig had been dead for almost nine years. The back of the obituary was just a portion of an advertisement.

A.J. looked up at Mrs. Crenshaw pointing the date of birth. "Is this your late husband's birthday?"

She nodded.

"Well, this is one of the oldest tricks to steal someone else's identity." Rick explained. "First, you find a guy close to your age in the obit, maybe go to a memorial service or funeral to get more information and request a copy of social security card, birth certificate, claiming you lost them." He paused for a moment. "Then you can get your drivers license. I bet your husband didn't have a passport though."

"How did you know?"

"Because getting a passport under a false name is risky. First, you have to decide if you should apply as a first-timer, or claim you lost your passport or let it expire. And if the real George Koenig had one, there is a possibility that the Department of State might notice some drastic changes in the applicant's appearance, which might raise a red flag."

"I suppose you're right about that," said Mrs. Crenshaw. "I wanted to travel to Europe, or Australia when we got married, but George dragged his feet over applying for a passport. Eventually I stopped nagging him, and we honeymooned in Mexico."

A.J. had been studying the obituary for some time. He finally looked up and asked, "Mrs. Crenshaw, did your husband ever mention that he'd been to, or lived in Oregon?"

"No, he did not. Do you think that clipping's from a local paper in Oregon?"

A.J. nodded his head. "In an obituary announcement, unless it's a well-known city, a state abbreviation usually follows an out-of-state city name like this one," he pointed at another announcement, "Hoboken, NJ. But in-state cities don't need the state abbreviation because the readers are familiar with them."

He placed the clipping on the coffee table so that the others could see what he was talking about.

"The name of Portland comes up quite often," he added.

"There's Portland, Maine." Rick reminded him.

"Sure, but along with Portland, Heppner, Milwaukie, Boring and The Dalles, there's Oregon City. If we can find those cities on a map of Oregon…"

Mrs. Crenshaw stood up and said, "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

She came back with an atlas that contained the maps of all fifty states. The three of them eagerly searched the cities A.J. had mentioned on the map of Oregon—they were all there.

"So, what does this mean?" Mrs. Crenshaw wondered aloud.

"It's safe to assume that your husband was in Oregon nine years ago when this obituary came out in print." A.J. put his finger on the other—or the original—George Koenig's obituary. "See the date of death?"

"And it's so close to the date for a meeting or whatever at Benson, we can also assume the hotel in question is located somewhere in Oregon, and the rendezvous was to take place there in May of '73." Rick elaborated. "It could be coincidence that those dates are close, but I don't think so."

Mrs. Crenshaw seemed impressed, which pleased him immensely.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Crenshaw. May I use your phone?" He asked with uncharacteristic politeness. The former teacher from his childhood somehow made him feel like a kid again.

"Of course you may." She moved the telephone from the corner table and set it right in front of him.

While his brother was talking with his contact at the phone company, A.J. examined the next item in the bundle that Mrs. Crenshaw had found in the safe deposit box. It was a copy of George Koenig's birth certificate: born in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, DOB, September 9, 1910. As he removed it from the pile, he saw another piece of scrap paper. On it was a short string of numbers: 06-27-19.

He looked up at her and asked, "Do you have any idea what significance these numbers have?"

"No, I have no idea. What do you think?"

"Could be someone's date of birth…"

"You mean, my husband's real birthday?"

A.J. shook his head. "People don't forget their own birthdays. Or, this could be a sequence to unlock a combination lock."

The last item from the deposit box was a torn half of what seemed to be a claim ticket, but it did not bear any sign of where it had come from.

Rick hung up the phone. "Found one Benson in Oregon; it's in Portland."

"Do you think it's the one?" asked A.J.

"I asked Bruno to check a few other cities—no hits."

The brothers simultaneously turned their eyes to their silver-haired client, who knew what they were about to ask.

"Go right ahead and make necessary travel arrangements." Mrs. Crenshaw said with a smile. "You're not in my class any more, Rick. You don't need a hall pass to move about."

Rick glowered at A.J., who was giggling in a way only an obnoxious little brother could.

"So long as you keep me informed on your progress, you don't have to request my permission every time you go out of town."

"We just don't want to put you out by racking up a lot of expenses on top of our fees, Mrs. Crenshaw." Rick explained.

She smiled warmly at the brothers. "I appreciate your concern, but Mr. Crenshaw was a CEO of a large corporation, and George was a financial whiz. I live modestly, but actually, I'm well off. It's just that for those of us who lived through the Great Depression, the concept of conspicuous consumption is too scary."

She shooed Mimi away from her lap and got out of her recliner telling Rick and A.J. to wait for a while. She came back with a personal check.

"This should cover your initial expenses and a portion of your fees."

Rick received the check and glanced at it—then he did a double take. "Holy sh…smoke!" His eyes were threatening to pop out of his head.

A.J. snatched the check from his brother's hand. When he saw the amount written on it, his head snapped up. "Mrs. Crenshaw, this is too much!"

"Nonsense!" She only laughed off. "At my age, I can't put a monetary value on peace of mind. And I have absolute faith in both of you. As I said, however, I expect reports in any form on regular basis."

One of the craziest notions popped into Rick's head that he and A.J. were about to be dismissed from her class to work on their homework.

"Better go get your crayons, A.J." He blurted out though he didn't mean to say it aloud and saw his brother glaring at him.

"You're the one who doesn't know how to type!" A.J. shot back.

"Now, gentlemen!"

Rick cringed; A.J. blushed. What the brothers clearly heard in Mrs. Crenshaw's authoritative classroom voice was, "_Now, children!"_


	3. Chapter 3

Benson Hotel was conveniently situated in the heart of downtown Portland, about twenty minutes from the airport. It exuded the aura of tradition and affluence—it was not a modest place for budget-conscious travelers like the Simons. After checking in at their more affordable hotel, they walked several blocks to Benson. Rick's casual and out-of-place attire drew stares of curiosity from some people in the lobby as he and A.J. walked in.

The woman who greeted the brothers at the front desk counter appeared to be barely twenty-one and could not have been working here five years ago, let alone nine.

"Good morning, and welcome to Benson!" Her perky greeting and youthful eager-beaver attitude brought a smile on Rick's lips.

"Morning."

"May I help you, sir?"

Her eyes were glued to A.J.'s face though it was Rick who had spoken.

"I certainly hope so," A.J. glanced at her name badge, "Katelyn."

He smiled at the desk clerk in rapt attention. She returned a bashful smile as her cheeks turned pink.

"We're trying to track a certain individual who may have been a guest here years ago. I'm wondering if you know someone in the management who's been an employee of this establishment for over ten years."

The unusual request couldn't put a damper on her irrepressible enthusiasm. "Oh, let me think…" She offered a quick smile to A.J. "We all are very loyal to this establishment, and there are many employees who have been working here for ten, twenty years."

The brothers nodded enticing her to continue. She mumbled a few names to herself and reached for something, perhaps the employees' roster.

"Mr. Burke's been here for fifteen, twenty years. I'll ask him if he's available."

She picked up the phone receiver at hand and spent a few minutes talking to a Mr. Burke. When she ended the call, she announced with a triumphant smile that the manager would see the brothers.

Jonathan Burke, Manager of Guest Relations, implied that he was busy and was not exactly enthusiastic about this meeting with Rick and A.J., so they got right to the point as soon as introduction was over.

"We know it's a long shot, but we're wondering if you could recognize this man, who may or may not have stayed here nine years ago."

Rick showed a picture of Mrs. Crenshaw's late husband, which had been taken shortly after their wedding.

"Nine years ago?" Burke looked at the brothers like they were out of their minds. "I'm lucky if I can remember a handful of guests from last week!"

Despite his remark, the operations manager took the photo from Rick's hand to have a closer look.

"No. Sorry. I don't remember ever seeing him, but that doesn't mean that he hasn't stayed here before."

He returned the photo to Rick. "What makes you think he's been here?"

"Because his widow found this memo locked in a safe deposit box." A.J. took out a copy of the mystery man's handwritten note. "It doesn't show the year, but we have a reason to believe it was back in 1973."

"May 25, 1973? Room 4418?" Burke cocked his head. "Why does that sound so…?"

Burke's brows came together, and he took another look at the piece of paper with more intensity. "Oh, God…"

"Something happen here that day?"

"Do you remember what happened?"

Rick and A.J. asked almost at the same time.

"Yes, of course I remember. How can I ever forget it? It was the worst day in my whole career without a doubt." Burke replied. "But it happened in Room 4420, not 4418."

"What exactly happened in Room 4420?" Rick rephrased the question.

"A man got killed."

Taken by surprise, the brothers were briefly left speechless.

"And it wasn't just an ordinary person; he was a U.S. Marshal."

"U.S. Marshal? What was he doing here?" Rick asked.

"Wish I knew." Burke sighed. "The housekeeping staff found the body shortly before 11:00, and we immediately contacted the police, but as soon as they ID'd the victim, the Feds took over the investigation. It was all hush-hush. I followed the media coverage of course, but not much was leaked to the public except for the victim's name, occupation and where and when he had been killed, which wasn't the greatest publicity for us to say the least."

"Do you remember his name?" asked Rick.

"Only the last name—Gunderson. You can probably find some newspaper articles in the periodical archive at the library. I don't think there are many though."

"Do you know if the Feds solved this case?" asked A.J. taking notes.

"As far as I know, no."

"I assume the police and the Feds requested the list of the hotel guests," said Rick. "Did they interview any of them? Were there any suspects or material witnesses?"

Burke shook his head. "Not that I know of. As I said, they were all tight-lipped about this whole thing, but I do remember the two connecting rooms, 4418 and 4420 were reserved under the victim's name."

After a few more questions and obtaining the direction to the nearest county library, the brothers thanked Burke and left his office.

"Boy, I don't like where things are going," said A.J. with a frown. "U.S. Marshal murdered, no less."

Rick nodded. "Yeah, I hear ya. It could mean Mrs. Crenshaw's late husband was a fugitive, or in the witness protection program. Either way, he was in a heap of trouble. I really don't look forward to telling Mrs. Crenshaw what we're going to dig up."

Multnomah County's Central Library was only a short stroll away from the hotel. Although A.J. voiced his concerns about the new case all the way to the library, the instant he stepped inside, he became ecstatic. He marveled at its sheer size, grandeur and marble floor. He kept on raving while he and his brother climbed up the marble stairs to the periodical section. In Rick's opinion, it was rather disturbing to see a grown man this happy—deliriously happy—outside Hugh Hefner's notorious mansion.

The library's periodical section was well stocked. In addition to the current issues of major newspapers from other cities in the U.S., there were foreign newspapers in English and other languages. Rick and A.J. found the back issues of The Oregonian from 1973 in the microfiche format.

They selected the ones covering a ten-day period starting a few days before May 25, ending several days after the murder. Rick handled the first half, A.J., the second.

A.J. soon learned that the U.S. Marshal murdered at Benson had been a twenty-five-year veteran agent named Dwight Gunderson. As Burke had predicted, however, the articles were light on facts. All A.J. got out of them was that the victim had been on assignment at the time of death in addition to his name, age and occupation.

He also found the obituary section for May 26, a day after the murder, with the announcement of George F. Koenig's death.

He took a break looking away from the microfiche scanner; it was giving him a mild case of motion sickness. Just looking at Rick, whose face was only several inches from his scanner while some newspaper advertisements were whizzing by with a soft whir, made him nauseous.

"A.J.?" Rick whispered.

"Yeah? Find something?" A.J. whispered back.

"Don't know yet, but how common or rare is hemophilia?"

"Hem…?" A.J. started to say then remembered what Mrs. Crenshaw had said about her husband's final request. "It's a hereditary disease caused by a defective X chromosome and pretty rare. It affects mostly males because we have only one X chromosome whereas females have two. A woman with one damaged X chromosome is only a carrier and not affected."

Rick nodded. "Here's an obituary for David Cohen. Born in New York City, died of complications from a bleeding episode on May 20, 1973. Says 'in lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to any hemophilia research organization.'"

A.J. moved his chair closer to Rick's and read the obituary taking notes. This appeared to be a promising lead.

"He died in Portland, so there's a chance that his widow, Anna-Marie, or one or more of their children are still living here," said A.J.

"Or, his brother, Ira." Rick pointed at the name on the screen.

Had Mrs. Crenshaw's late husband been a relative or an acquaintance of David Cohen's, drawn to the West Coast from New York to attend his funeral? Rick and A.J. decided to look for David Cohen's widow to see where it would lead them.

They found two listings of Anna-Marie Cohen in the phone book. Of course, neither might be the one they were looking for, and there was a good chance that David Cohen's widow had moved on, remarried and was no longer Cohen. There was only one way to find out.

The brothers placed a call to the first Anna-Marie Cohen on the list from the nearest pay phone. This one, however, was a nineteen-year-old college student.

At the second Anna-Marie Cohen's residence, the phone kept on ringing unanswered. They hung up, waited for five minutes or so and gave it another try. They were ready to hang up after eight or nine rings then they heard a click.

"Hello?" A woman's voice answered the phone. She sounded much older than the coed and slightly out of breath.

"Hello. This is A.J. Simon of Simon & Simon Investigations. Is Mrs. Anna-Marie Cohen available to take this call?"

"This is she," said she cautiously. "Are you an investigator? What's this all about?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Cohen, but my brother and I are trying to identify a certain individual who recently passed away in San Diego."

"And you think I can help you identify him?" She sounded doubtful. "I have no relatives or friends in San Diego, or in southern California for that matter."

"Did you have a husband named David, who passed away in 1973?"

"Yes." Her voice turned slightly cold.

"We have a reason to believe the man we're trying to identify knew your late husband well and may have attended his memorial service or funeral." A.J. explained patiently trying to persuade her. "I know this is a terrible imposition, but we are wondering if you could possibly meet with us this afternoon. We don't want to inconvenience you, so we'll make it brief."

Mrs. Cohen did not reply right away.

"We can come over, but since we're total strangers, you probably feel more comfortable meeting in a public place if you can spare a little bit of your time to speak with us in person…" A.J. pressed on. "Or, if you're busy today, we can…"

"No, today's fine."

A.J. smiled and nodded his head to let Rick know the meeting was on. "That's wonderful! We truly appreciate it, Mrs. Cohen. Do you have any preference for our meeting place?"

"Well, let's see," she paused for a moment. "Where are you staying, Mr. Simon?"

He told her the name of his hotel.

"Are you calling from there?"

"No, we're calling from a pay phone near Central Library."

She suggested a restaurant located somewhere between the library and the Simons' hotel and agreed to meet with them in half an hour. A.J. thanked her profusely and ended the call.

The restaurant was located in the basement of an insurance building, but its outdoor dining area was accessible from the street above. Rick and A.J. trotted down the stairs to secure a table. As Mrs. Cohen had warned, the place was hopping with office workers and some students.

A.J. jumped to his feet when he spotted a wisp of a woman in her sixties or seventies with fashionably short white hair wearing a black jacket and a red rose on the lapel.

"Mrs. Cohen? I'm A.J. Simon."

He stuck his hand out. She took it in hers after a moment of hesitation.

"This is my brother, Rick."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am. And thank you for coming to talk to us."

The brothers sat back down when Mrs. Cohen took one of the empty chairs at their table. A waiter nearby came by to take their orders quickly and left for the kitchen. When they were alone again, A.J. explained the nature of their investigation without going into details. Rick produced the picture of the man in question and placed it on the table.

The moment her eyes fell on the photo, she gasped, "Ira!"

"Ira? You mean he was your brother-in-law?" asked Rick. "So, he came here to attend your husband's funeral?"

"Maybe, but I'm not so sure."

Rick and A.J. were perplexed by her reply.

"Could you elaborate on that, Mrs. Cohen?" A.J. asked.

"Ira didn't attend the memorial service or the funeral, but the director of the funeral home told me a man who fit Ira's description showed up one evening after-hours. David and Ira looked so much alike the director could tell he was a family member and let him view David's body though the parlor was closed."

"Do you have any idea why Ira didn't attend the services?" asked Rick.

"I'm not certain—I haven't seen or heard from him for years, but David once told me Ira might be in some sort of trouble."

"Trouble?"

"What sort of trouble, do you know?"

The brothers asked as one.

"David and Ira were very close, but even my husband didn't know exactly what was going on back East. I suppose Ira didn't want to worry him because even then his health was declining rapidly. Then, only a few weeks before David passed on, Rochel—Ira's wife—got killed."

"Killed? How? Auto accident? Mugging?" Rick led the questioning while A.J. was taking notes.

"Home invasion. The police determined it was a botched burglary."

"But you don't think so."

"I don't know what to think; I wasn't there. But according to David, Ira never believed the police's theory. When you think about it, it's preposterous to claim that a burglar, who panicked and killed a homeowner, stayed behind and methodically poured accelerant throughout the house and set it on fire."

"God, that's awful!" A.J. briefly stopped scribbling, looking up from the memo pad on the table.

"What did Ira do for a living?" Rick resumed his questioning.

"He was a CPA at one of the largest accounting firms." Mrs. Cohen mentioned the name of the firm that even Rick recognized.

"Do you think his trouble was work-related?"

"No." Her denial was absolute. "He didn't do anything unethical at work if that's what you mean. His world revolved around Rochel and his work in that order. He and David were cut from the same cloth. They were the most disciplined, honest men I ever met."

"Where did he live? And where did he move after his home burned down?"

"He lived in Westbury, Long Island. After the fire, he stayed with his friend for a while until he moved into a small apartment in the city—New York City, that is."

A.J. stopped writing and turned back some pages of his notebook. "Excuse me, Mrs. Cohen." When he found the page he was looking for, he looked up at her. "According to our client, Ira's last words were, 'I must go back to Dusky's. I owe it to Rainy.' Do you have any idea what he meant by that?"

"I don't know about the Dusky's bit, but Rainy was Rochel's nickname. Actually, only Ira called her that. Her middle name was Lorraine, and he used to call her his 'Sweet Lorraine,' Rainy for short and play that song on the piano whenever the mood struck. He was the romantic one of the two brothers."

Before their lunch was over, Rick and A.J. had gathered more information than they had hoped for. A.J. jotted down the phone number of his hotel on the back of his business card and handed it to Mrs. Cohen.

"Just in case, here are a couple of numbers you can call if you think of anything else. Not that we expect you to—you've done more than enough to help us with the investigation, and we are immensely grateful. Please let us know if there's anything we can do for you in return."

She absentmindedly fingered the business card contemplating his offer. "Well, now that you mentioned it, I have one request."

"Name it," said Rick without the slightest hesitation.

"When you send a report to your client, could you tell her that I'd like to get in touch with her? I… I'd like to hear how Ira lived his final years." Mrs. Cohen looked at the brothers as if to see their reaction. "He and David were fraternal twins, and we were all close, the twins, me, Rochel, when we were still living in New York…"

A.J. gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Cohen, you don't owe us any explanation. We're more than happy to convey your message to our client. I can't guarantee you anything at this point, but I have a feeling she would love to speak with you to learn more about her late husband."

Mrs. Cohen shook hands with the brothers and left the restaurant lost in her thoughts and old memories.


	4. Chapter 4

Rick and A.J. decided to go back to their hotel and discuss their findings thus far and put them in perspective.

They stopped at the front desk to pick up their room key and request other services. The female clerk went above and beyond to please A.J. undoubtedly, and he flirted casually with her though Rick doubted that he was aware of what he was doing.

As they punched the floor button on the elevator panel to go up to their room, Rick said, "You know, you should be thankful that you have an older brother who taught you everything there is to know when you were growing up."

"What are you talking about?" asked A.J. showing contempt in his voice.

"Think about it; you learned everything you need to know about girls, dating, facts of life and other stuff like that from me before you entered middle school."

"You're really full of it, Rick," snorted A.J. "When you were eleven, some of your notion of the female reproductive system was so far off, I had to unlearn it when I got a little older."

"Blame it on Enrique Hernandez. He swore he'd seen a puppy come out of his family dog's rear end."

They got out of the elevator when it reached their floor. As A.J. pushed open the door of their hotel room and set one foot inside still snickering, an arm shot out from his right and snaked around his neck. Rick rushed in with his hand on the butt of his Magnum, but a disembodied voice from behind the door warned him, "Don't even think about it."

The door closed behind him revealing a man of imposing stature. He was holding a Walther TPH with a silencer in his gloved hand—he was a pro who knew about the gun's notorious 'bite.' He confiscated Rick's piece.

The Glove's partner in crime, who had a chokehold on A.J., was only a few inches taller than Rick but easily outweighed him by eighty pounds or more, and his biceps were as big as a young girl's waist. He had a shaved head and held a Beretta firmly on A.J.'s temple, but the firearm was really overkill—he could snap his neck like a twig with his bare hands.

"In the belt holster." The Baldy tersely informed the Glove where A.J.'s gun was.

"Hey, guys. There's no need for violence. We're gonna give you all the money we got, okay?" Rick said as calmly as he could, not to escalate the situation while the Glove was collecting A.J.'s snub-nose.

"He thinks we're robbing a couple of small-time gumshoes staying at a cheap hotel." The Baldy jeered.

By that time, Rick had figured out this was not a simple case of robbery. The room was a mess with his and his brother's clothes strewn everywhere, their overnight bags emptied and tossed aside. The thugs were after something, but certainly not money.

"Who hired you to snoop on Ira Cohen?" The Glove asked out of the blue.

Rick couldn't help sneaking a quick peek at A.J. Though his brother seemed to be fighting to take each breath, a look of bewilderment flickered across his face when the Glove mentioned the name that they had learned for the first time only a short while ago.

_Who are these guys? How did they find out we're private investigators? How did Ira Cohen get involved with the heavies like them?_

So many questions swirled in Rick's head.

"Give us a straight answer, or I'm gonna send the pretty boy over there to a private session with my partner. I can assure you, he's not gonna stay pretty for long. My buddy's very good at what he does." The Glove threatened.

A.J. gagged as the Baldy tightened his hold around his neck to make an unnecessary show of his brute strength.

"Hey, like I said, there's no need for violence," said Rick hastily. "We were retained by Ira Cohen's widow. Only, she has no idea who she was married to."

"You sure Cohen's dead?" The Glove asked. "What name was he using when he died? What did he die of?"

"George Koenig. Lung cancer."

"Why did his widow hire you?"

"After his death, she found some documents in his deposit box. One of them was a copy of George Koenig's obituary from 1973. She just wants to know who her late husband really was, nothing more."

"Why did you come to Portland?"

"There was also a memo in the deposit box. It mentioned Benson Hotel, and it turned out to be the one you got in this city."

The Glove kept asking questions one after another, and Rick answered them as fast as possible hoping to prove he wasn't lying.

There was a short breather in the lightning-quick Q&A round.

"Prove it." The Glove said breaking the silence. He grabbed the phone by the nightstand and shoved it to Rick. "Call the widow and prove that you're telling the truth."

Rick was reluctant to drag any of his clients, especially a frail old lady like Mrs. Crenshaw, into something like this, but he had no choice. As he dialed her home phone number, the Glove stood next to him to listen in on the conversation he was about to have.

After a few rings, the phone receiver on the other end was picked up.

"Hello."

Rick heard Mrs. Crenshaw's voice on the line.

"Hi, Mrs. Koenig! This is Richard, Richard Simon. One of the investigators you hired?" He spoke as fast as he could, not to give her enough time to say anything.

After a beat or two, she said, "Oh, yes. Yes, Mr. Simon."

He quietly let out a sigh of relief. She seemed to be playing along. She'd always been sharp as a tack, and no one had ever successfully pulled the wool over her eyes to get away with some pranks or shenanigans in her classroom.

"I've got some good news, Mrs. Koenig. We now know the true identity of your late husband."

"Is that right?" Her cautious tone was devoid of excitement.

"You bet! His name was Ira Cohen. He really was from New York City, where he worked as an accountant for a big firm."

"I see," said Mrs. Crenshaw. "But why did he assume someone else's identity? What was he running from?"

Rick took a quick look at the Glove and saw him shake his head.

"Uh… We haven't gotten that far into the investigation. We'll dig up some more information and let you know as soon as we can."

"That'll be fine. I'll be waiting for your next call then."

"All right. Well, gotta go, Mrs. Koenig. Our cab's waiting outside. Bye for now."

"Good-bye, Mr. Simon."

Rick hung up the phone and waited an uneasy moment or two for the Glove's response.

"All right," said the Glove finally.

Rick heaved a sigh of relief.

"Just keep your noses out of this and pack up and leave. Forget about the whole thing."

"What if Mrs. Koenig doesn't want to call off the investigation?"

"That's your problem. Tell her something, anything. Talk her out of it if you don't want anything to happen to you or her."

"And forget that we've ever met." The Baldy warned.

"Already forgotten. So, you don't have to…"

A terrified expression on his brother's face warned Rick something was going horribly wrong, but it was too late to react. The Glove pistol-whipped him on the side of the head.

As he started to fall, his brother's visage filled his vision. Eyes wide, A.J. was screaming. _Or is he just trying to scream?_ Rick wasn't sure—the world around him was fading fast. Before he hit the floor, he had blacked out.


	5. Chapter 5

When Rick regained consciousness, he found himself on the carpeted floor of his messy hotel room. There was a spot right above his right temple that throbbed like an injured thumb after a carpentry mishap radiating the pain to the rest of the head. He shook his head to clear it but instantly regretted doing so. It took him a tremendous amount of effort just to lift his head to look around.

As soon as he spotted A.J. lying face down only a couple of paces from him, he forgot all about the headache and pulled himself up on hands and knees.

"A.J.?" Rick flipped his brother over to check on his vital signs.

"Ow!" A.J.'s eyes flew open as his head lolled and bounced on the floor. "Why'd you do that? I've got a goose egg on the back of my head!"

"Sorry. I was just worried about you."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

Usually his brother's carping like that would get his goat, but Rick let this one slide. He was plain relieved that A.J. was okay—at least well enough to shoot his mouth off.

A.J. slowly sat up leaning heavily against the chest of drawers. He hugged his knees and hung his head low between them.

Rick too dropped down on his backside and leaned on the side of the bed behind him throwing his head back to rest it on the mattress.

"You know, I've been thinking," said Rick after a while. "We've had our bells rung more than once on and off the job over the years. How many times do you think we got beaten up?"

No answer came from his brother, so he baited him, "More than a dozen, fewer than a hundred?"

"About that." A.J.'s voice sounded hoarse.

"But for some reason, it never gets easier to take a lickin', does it?"

That drew a muted chuckle from A.J., who was still sitting on the floor with his head down. "Let's hope we'll never get used to _that_."

The shrill sound of the telephone startled the brothers to sit up straight. They stared at each other hesitating to answer it.

It was Rick who took the call. "Hello?" He answered slowly.

"Rick? Are you all right?" It was Mrs. Crenshaw. "I've been trying to reach you for some time. Were you out?"

"Yes." It was true in a sense though he knew it was not what she had meant. "Listen, Mrs…Mrs. C., can I give you a call right back?"

"Oh, did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, no, it's not that. I'll call you in a minute or two, so please don't go anywhere."

Rick had no idea if the phone he was on was secure or not and did not want to take any risk while speaking with her.

He and A.J. ran down to the lobby area and called her collect from one of the pay phones. She sounded relieved.

"So, what happened, Rick?"

"Before we get into that, I want you to know what I told you about your late husband is true. He was here nine years ago because his brother, his fraternal twin brother, David, died. David Cohen's widow positively identified your husband as Ira Cohen." He paused thinking how to phrase what followed after the discovery. "We came back to our hotel to review our findings, and that was when we found a couple of men waiting for us in our room."

"A couple of goons, or muscles, you mean."

In spite of the current situation, it struck him funny to hear his former teacher speak his argot. "Yes."

"Are you and your brother hurt?"

"They were just trying to scare us and get some information." He sort of danced around her question and redirected the course of their conversation. "They want you to give up on this investigation though."

"Do you want to give it up?"

"What we want is irrelevant and immaterial, Mrs. Crenshaw. You're our client, you call the shots."

She was quiet for a while.

"Did you find anything else?"

"In Room 4420 at Benson, a U.S. Marshal named Dwight Gunderson was murdered on May 25, 1973."

A second or two elapsed. "Do you think George…Ira killed him?"

"We can't rule it out yet, but I don't think so. It's hard to imagine Ira Cohen led a double life being a hardworking accountant by day, a hired gun by night. The most likely scenario is he ran when he saw the marshal killed."

"Why do you think my husband had to go to the hotel on that day?"

"One of the possibilities is Ira Cohen was in the witness protection program, or was about to enter it, and he was Gunderson's charge. And probably it's safe to assume the real target of the man who killed the marshal was your late husband."

"And what it means, if that's true, is that he was about to testify against a person or persons affiliated with an organized crime syndicate," elaborated A.J. "Like _La Cosa Nostra_, you know, the Mafia. So, I don't want you to make a hasty decision on this, Mrs. Crenshaw."

"What do you think, Rick?" She asked.

"Let's assume for now your husband was being prepped to be a star witness in a major federal case. Whoever wanted him dead knows he's gone and no longer able to testify against them. They can easily check on the public record to confirm his death, so I don't think you're in real danger, but just to be on the safe side, contact the police…"

"Or, better yet, call the county D.A.'s office and ask for Janet Fowler," said A.J. "She's a good friend of ours and happens to be an A.D.A. She may be able to look into some federal files and do some arm-twisting to have a uniform keep an eye on your home."

She fell silent for a while.

"Anyway, Mrs. Crenshaw, we got the result you wanted—the person you spent the last eight years was Ira Cohen, not George Koenig," said Rick. "We can wrap up the case, return to San Diego and give you a full report if that's what you want. If not, I want you to sleep on it like A.J. says."

After a stretch of silence, Mrs. Crenshaw spoke again. "I don't want you to risk your lives on my account…"  
"Don't worry about it. The hoodlums probably won't be looking for us now that they know Ira Cohen's dead." Rick downplayed the trouble and danger he and A.J. might stir up.

"It's just that I won't be able to forgive myself if something happens to you or your brother while working for me."

"Like I said, you don't have to worry about it. We've been in a lot worse situation. 'sides, that's one of the reasons I'm in this business—it's never boring." Rick grinned.

"I don't know if it's your work, or your gravitation towards danger that makes everything…interesting, Rick. You certainly made my work a real adventure—I'll never forget that, dear."

Rick and A.J. could hear a smile in her voice. After asking her again to consider the options, they promised to give her a call in the morning and hung up.

Rick patted his jacket. "Damn! My wallet's gone!"

A.J. didn't appear too sympathetic.

"Sometimes, it pays to be Rick Simon, doesn't it? You had only several dollars in it, and the bank canceled your credit card last month, so all you have to do is get a replacement of your drivers license." He grinned. "And you thought I was being paranoid to keep my valuables and the notes for the investigation in the hotel safe."

Rick let his brother crow about the oversight for the time being. "Go ahead and gloat, just get it all out of your system. But remember, we came back here to talk about our case, you know."

A.J.'s smug grin faded. "Yeah, right. Can we go elsewhere to talk though? Somewhere we can be alone?"

Forty-five minutes later, they were driving east on I-84 in a rental car, heading for the Columbia Gorge.

"The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that Ira Cohen was about to testify against a major crime figure in New York City before he surfaced in Portland," said A.J. in the driver's seat. "And that means he wasn't in the witness protection program just yet, or he wouldn't have been allowed to be near his family."

"Yeah, that's what I think." Rick nodded in agreement. "He probably snuck out of town against the Feds' warning to say the last good-bye to his twin. I bet they were watching him like a hawk after his wife got killed. They must've known it was a hit but manipulated the media not to attract too much attention to their case."

"I also have been thinking how those muscles found out about us so quickly, and the only thing I can think of is a wiretap. I have a hunch that whoever behind this had a bug installed on Mrs. Cohen's line just in case Ira slipped up and contacted her."

"Oh, yeah," said Rick. "When you called her, you told her everything—who we are, where we're staying, where and when we were hooking up with her…"

"Which backs up our theory that some big leaguer is involved in this case: someone with vast human and financial resources. We're talking about continuous surveillance on an individual on the opposite coast for nine years. I suppose they must stay vigilant because there's no statute of limitations on homicide."

"You ready to take on a heavy-hitter?"

"Let's not jump the gun, Rick. We need Mrs. Crenshaw's go-ahead first."

"You don't know her as well as I do, A.J. She's no quitter—she's like a pit bull. Believe me, she's not gonna let this one drop. Mark my words."

As Rick had predicted, Mrs. Crenshaw called that evening asking the brothers to stay the course. She also emphasized that all she wanted was to prove Ira Cohen had not engaged in any illegal activities and repeatedly begged Rick not to stir up a hornet's nest.

After the phone call, Rick contacted a few airlines looking for a morning flight out of PDX to New York City while A.J. were writing a couple of letters: the first report to Mrs. Crenshaw, and a short thank-you letter to Mrs. Cohen with a suggestion that she ask the telephone company to check on her line.


	6. Chapter 6

The plane that carried Rick and A.J. touched down uneventfully at LaGuardia Airport via Dallas/Fort Worth the following evening. The cab ride into the city, as it turned out, was more white-knuckle than the flight. By the time the cab was zipping down on I-495 to cross East River, the whole structure of the rickety vehicle was shimmying.

"Oh, God! He's doing eighty!" A.J. whimpered clinging to Rick's arm as the cabbie hopscotched across the lanes to dodge yet another car in heavy traffic.

"Hey, could you slow down a little?" Rick told the driver in front of him. "You're scaring my brother here."

The cabbie was the kind of man who didn't tolerate backseat drivers and hecklers well. He gave the Simon brothers the evil eye, taking his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second. The cab veered slightly and started to drift into the next lane.

"Watch out!" A.J. screamed at the top of his lungs. Even Rick's heart skipped a beat or two when he was sure the cab would sideswipe the car in the next lane.

At the last moment, the cabbie corrected the course of his vehicle. Then he flipped the bird at the other driver who was honking his horn angrily.

Even before the cabbie dropped them off in front of a deli off East 33rd Street, Rick and A.J. had had enough thrills they could stomach on the first night in the Big Apple. While Rick was paying the driver, A.J. looked around to see where their hotel was.

"Rick? I don't see any hotel around here."

"Well, our home-away-from-home isn't exactly a hotel in a conventional sense," said Rick looking up at the windows above the deli.

A.J. followed Rick's gaze and immediately became alarmed. "Rick, this is a tenement house! And by the look of it, it's probably infested with pests!"

"Don't be so judgmental. According to Carlos, this is a great place to be in the city. Empire State Building, subway stations, Pennsylvania Station—they're all just a stone's throw away."

"Oh, that's just grand!" A.J. was getting worked up. "Call me strange, but I don't want a rodent or an insect to be my bedmate!"

"Come on, it can't be that bad. Where's your sense of adventure, huh? Besides, this is probably the last place our foe would check to look for us."

Rick slapped A.J. on the back and started hauling his bag up the stairs. A.J. stared at his brother's back for a few moments then followed him begrudgingly with a sigh.

"From now on, I'll never let you make the travel arrangements for our future cases." He grumbled.

To Rick's amusement, A.J. collapsed on his bed with exhaustion after taking a long shower despite his whining about the unsanitary condition of their accommodations.

Rick was a little envious that his brother had always been a sound sleeper, able to sleep like a baby whenever he ran out of gas. Unlike A.J., he was insomniac to start with, and now that his circadian rhythm was thrown off by the three-hour time difference, he was in the bedtime purgatory.

With nothing to do and his brother fast asleep, Rick wondered if he could pay a visit to Carlos' distant relative who was the super of this building. He checked his watch: 9:45 p.m. PST. So, it was already past midnight, local time. He hoped it wasn't too late to drop in on Juan Suarez as he walked out of his room.

Rick woke up to the sound of blaring car horns drifting up to his window from the street below. Groggy and bleary-eyed, he got up and stumbled into the bathroom with a full bladder. How many shots of tequila did he have with Juan last night?

A.J. was already up taking a shower though it was still five o'clock in their accustomed time zone. Still half asleep, Rick relieved himself and flushed the toilet. A.J. screamed in the shower as the already hot water turned scalding hot.

"Oops…" Rick muttered sleepily.

"Damn it, Rick!" A.J.'s angry face popped out from behind the shower curtain.

"Sorry. I'm not quite fully awake yet. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear."

"Sometimes I wonder…" mumbled A.J. and resumed showering.

Fifteen minutes later when Rick got out of the shower, A.J. was happily munching on a bagel.

"What'd you get for me?" Rick asked eyeing at a couple of paper sacks on his bed.

"Doughnuts and relatively good coffee, extra strong and piping hot," replied A.J. sipping a cup of coffee. "The deli downstairs is pretty decent."

"What'd you get for yourself?"

"A bagel with cream cheese and lox."

Rick frowned. "Locks? What the hell is that?"

"Cured salmon. Want a bite?"

A.J. offered his bagel, but Rick grimaced and formed a cross with his index fingers as if to ward off evil spirits.

"Who wants fish for breakfast?" Rick sounded disgusted.

"Lots of people," countered A.J. "The British eat kippers for breakfast, for example."

"No wonder our forefathers revolted against the British Empire."

"I thought it was the Tea Act that led to the American Revolutionary War."

"And that's why us Americans drink coffee instead."

"And that's why you're not teaching U.S. History in school."

A.J. finished his breakfast and tried on a mousy brown-haired wig and a pair of glasses with a black rim.

"How do I look?"

"Perfect!" Rick said with a grin. "You look slightly geekier than usual."

He got on his feet and started to get into a striped coverall. He also put on a cap, a pair of round-rimmed glasses and trimmed back his mustache just a bit.

They were planning to snoop around at the accounting firm Ira Cohen had worked for, and they were certain whoever responsible for his flight had kept a watchful eye on the place just like they had on Anna-Marie's. They were also certain that the goons who had shown up at their hotel in Portland had informed their boss on the new development along with the physical descriptions of the Simon brothers.

They hailed a cab and headed for lower Manhattan. Rick got out of the vehicle a couple of blocks away from the final drop-off site. They figured it was safer for them to enter the building separately.

A.J. got there first hiding among a gaggle of accountants to pass by the security desk and get in an elevator. The mailroom was located in the basement. He slipped inside when he was sure there was no one around. He grabbed a cart with bundles of envelopes and packages and began his fake mail round.

Rick arrived at the same building carrying a toolbox shortly after his brother did. He pretended to tinker with the wiring or some office machine here and there.

Whenever the brothers spotted older employees, they tried to strike up a conversation and casually ask, "By the way, do you know if Mr. Ira Cohen still works here, sir? He used to live in my neighborhood until his place burned down. I often wonder how he's been doing because he was so good to me and my parents," or "Hey, did you ever work with Ira Cohen? I worked on his house in Westbury a few times before the world came crashing down around him. Anyway, I saw him while vacationing in San Diego last winter, but he insisted he was somebody else…"

Rick sauntered into the break room at 11:30 as planned. A.J. was there already, pouring some coffee in a Styrofoam cup at the coffee machine.

Rick grasped the power cord of the coffee maker and jiggled the plug as if to check on the connection.

"Electrical Room on the second floor. Five minutes." He whispered without looking up.

A.J. gave him a slight nod although he never made eye contact. He tossed his almost full cup in the trashcan and left the room before his brother.

The electrical room had enough space for a couple of electricians to do their work but not much more. The people scurrying up and down the corridor largely ignored Rick in a repairman's uniform when he walked into the electrical room. A.J. slipped in there after he made sure no one was around and closed the door shut.

"So, did you hear about Ira Cohen's partner on his work team who got whacked in his own office?" asked Rick.

"Rodney Hirsch? Yeah. It seems a lot of people associated with Ira Cohen died of natural and not-so-natural causes around the time he disappeared."

"So, his trouble was work-related after all but not in the way most people might think. He probably saw the Hirsch guy killed, or had the goods on it."

"And since some crime ring is involved, his colleague was either engaged in an illegal activity or about to blow the whistle on it."

"Like cooking books for the mob." Rick nodded in agreement. "Got anything else?"

"Uh-huh. Ira sometimes subbed for the keyboard player of his friends' jazz band."

"What's the band called?"

"No one remembers, but it often played at a club called Alley Cat."

"So, what do you wanna do now?"

A.J. quickly considered the options. "There's a storage room in the basement. Let's see if we can find personal files on Ira and Rodney Hirsch."

Rick was not quite sold on the idea. "A.J., it's been over nine years since they last worked here. I'm sure their files are long gone by now."

"Business owners keep their work records for ten years or more just in case the government requests some information from years back for auditing purposes." A.J. grinned at his brother. "Of all people, you should know, Rick."

Down in the basement, A.J. expertly picked the lock of the storage room and slipped in. This time, Rick borrowed a bucket and a mop from one of the closets upstairs and pretended to be a janitor mopping the floor while keeping an eye out.

Once inside the room, A.J. quickly looked around to figure out the filing system. It was a self-evident and efficient method—the files were separated into clients and employees categories then sorted by year then alphabetized. He was able to find the cabinets for the employees with ease and opened the drawer labeled A-C.

As A.J. pulled out Ira Cohen's personal file and moved on down to the drawer for G-I, Rick spotted an old man, another suit, approaching.

"Good morning, sir." He practically shouted at the man. "If you're going in there," he pointed his chin toward the storage room, "watch your step. I just mopped the floor, and it may be slippery."

The stranger made a face. "You don't have to yell, young man. I may be old, but I can hear fine."

"Eh?" Rick cupped his hand behind his ear. "Sorry, I'm hard of hearing, sir," said Rick even louder.

A.J. heard his brother's warning and frenetically searched the file for Rodney Hirsch. As soon as he found it, he stuffed the two folders under his jacket and was about to slam the cabinet drawer shut, but at the last moment, he yanked the wig and the glasses off and threw them in the drawer. If the person on the other side of the door had seen him pushing the mail cart earlier, he'd never be able to explain what a mailboy was doing here. The second the drawer was closed, the door opened.

"Who are you, young man? What do you think you're doing here?"

The old man with thinning silver hair confronted him.

"Well, I was instructed by Mr., uh…" A.J. frantically tried to recall some of the names he had seen on the correspondence in the cart.

"Oh, wait a minute. Are you the new intern assigned to William? William Beckett?"

"Yes! Yes, I am!" A.J. pounced on this lucky break.

"Didn't he tell you that we moved the Kessler files to the third floor because they're now active again?"

"I haven't met Mr. Beckett yet. It's my first day, sir," said A.J. innocently, hoping that he would pass for a starry-eyed intern.

"He should be in by now. Go back to his office, son."

The old man took one of the cardboard boxes stacked up in one corner and exited the room, shaking his head and muttering something to himself.

Rick rapped on the door to let his brother know the coast was clear. He put the bucket and the mop in the storage room before A.J. shut the door.

The brothers decided they had gathered enough information for now and left the basement, A.J. by elevator, Rick by stairs.

Rick reached the ground floor first. While waiting for his brother, his eyes started to wander. When he recognized one of the men in the crowd near the entrance, his pulse quickened.

A ding of the elevator announced its car's arrival. Rick anxiously sought A.J. out among a cluster of men and women in business attire and grabbed his arm to pull him away from the entrance whispering urgently, "The other door."

A.J. detected tension in Rick's voice and started to follow him but made a potentially fatal mistake; he looked back. He did not turn into a pillar of salt like Lot's wife, but his eyes met with those of the man he had encountered in Portland—the Glove.

"Oh, no…" He whispered. "He saw me, Rick!"

Without another word, Rick and A.J. broke into a run.


	7. Chapter 7

It took the Glove a fraction of a second longer to recognize one of the PIs from San Diego. He cursed out loud and yelled at his partner as he began the chase, "Over there!"

The brothers ran out of the building through the door on the opposite side and kept on running, dodging the people all around them. After several blocks, Rick spotted a subway entrance ahead.

"A.J…"

"Subway?"

They took a backward glance to see if the chase was still on, and unfortunately, it was. The pedestrians behind them were scrambling not to be trampled on as the two scary-looking men charged straight ahead stopping for nothing, like a couple of bulls running through the streets of Pamplona.

Rick and A.J. flew down the stairs and heard the unmistakable sound of an oncoming train.

As they reached the subway level, Rick jumped over the turnstile and landed on the platform, but A.J. stopped short of following his brother.

"A.J.!" Rick looked back and yelled. "We don't have time to pay for the tokens, for God's sake!"

The train had already arrived at the station, purging itself of some of its burden. A.J. knew he could not dawdle any longer, jumped over the turnstile and ran towards the nearest door of the train as his brother did.

The moment Rick got into one of the cars its door began to slide close. He stuck his arms out to keep it open for A.J. Together they pushed it until it yielded enough space for A.J. to squeeze through.

When the door finally closed, the Glove and the Baldy were only several steps away. As the train started to leave the station, they angrily pounded on the door window, startling some of the passengers.

The brothers nervously kept moving forward, from one car to the next. They knew that the pair of goons would not be able to get to the next stop fast enough, thanks to the New York City traffic congestion, but it did not mean they could not call their boss to have someone waiting at every stop along the way. They also knew the chance of getting caught would decrease if they got off the train fast.

They purposely stayed in the most crowded car so that they would be able to hide among the commuters and the tourists once they got off. When the train pulled into the next station, they suppressed their urge to sprint and, with their heads down, stayed in the middle of the passengers walking up the stairs to the street level.

Back on the outside, Rick and A.J. resumed running, took a few turns until they saw another subway entrance for a different line and caught another train. By the time they got off at the first stop, they started to relax a little. Rick got out of the repairman's coverall and ditched it in a trashcan. Just in case, they switched to yet another line. They figured being on a crowded subway was better than being exposed out in the streets of the city.

This time, they stayed on the train for several stops, but they were swept away in the waves of passengers getting off at what seemed to be a major transfer station.

"Do you think we lost them?" asked A.J. nervously looking around in the dingy passageway where the people around them were pushing and shoving to make headway.

"They may know which line we got on first, but I'm sure they don't know where we got off and which line we transferred to."

"But where are we? I hope we're not in Harlem."

Someone laughed right behind them, making A.J. jump like a frisky terrier.

"You're not from around here, are ya, kid?"

There was a newspaper stand behind them, and the man in charge of it was still chuckling. "Welcome to New York." He pronounced it Noo Yawk. "We're on the lower level of Penn Station, so don't sweat it."

"What gave you the idea that we're not from around here?" asked Rick. "Do we tawk funny or sump'n?" He asked with a mischievous grin.

The newsstand guy grinned back. "Very funny. Okay, Mr. Outta-Town Wiseguy. Where ya from?"

"San Diego. I'm Rick Simon, and this nervous Nellie here is my brother, A.J."

"Joe Esposito." The New Yorker introduced himself with a nod. "So, what are a coupla California boys doin' in Noo Yawk? You don't look like you're enjoyin' all di attractions our fair city has to offer."

"We're looking for someone from the past." Rick replied vaguely.

"Excuse me." A.J. joined the conversation for the first time. "You seem to be intimately familiar with this city. May I ask you a question?"

"Sure. Shoot. I know da city like da back of my hand."

"Do you happen to know where a jazz club called Alley Cat is located?"

"Yeah…" Joe broke off and took a good look at A.J. "But you don't wanna go dere."

"Why is that?"

Joe sighed and spoke deliberately as if to explain something all too obvious to a three-year-old. "Dere's a soiten neighborhood in Harlem where even da cops are afraid to go after dark." He shook his head. "If you go dere lookin' and tawkin' like dat, you'll get beat up, mugged or woise in five minutes."

"I can dress down to be more discreet." A.J. suggested.

Joe shook his head again. "You'll still look like one of dose rich kids dat have homes on Park Avenue and in Southampton and go to fancy Ivy League colleges and woik on Wall Street or live off deir trust funds."

"What about me?" Rick was just curious.

Joe took a gander at him before the verdict. "You might come off as a southerner wid an attitude da size of Texas. Or, as dey sometimes say in my neighborhood, you look like you got a lotta shit witchoo, pardon my French."

"That can't be good…"

"'fraid not. Da guys in Harlem hate rednecks more dan rich kids, especially da cocky ones."

Collecting some coins from a customer picking up a copy of the Daily News, Joe saw a certain look pass between the odd brothers from California.

"You two must be nuttier dan a fruitcake. You gonna go dere, aren'tcha?"

Rick only shrugged as if to say, '_Well, what else can we do?_'

Joe shook his head dumbfounded by their stupidity. _Da hot California sun must've fried deir brains permanently_, he concluded. "Dis is still a free country, but I'm tellin' ya, it's your funeral."


	8. Chapter 8

In order to regroup, the Simon brothers returned to their humble base that was dingier than the subterranean level of Penn Station. On the way back, they made photocopies of the documents in the personal files for Ira Cohen and Rodney Hirsch. Rick asked Juan Suarez to keep one set of copies as a backup.

"Juan, me and A.J. are going to a jazz club this afternoon," said Rick. "We need funky clothes that musicians might wear. And can you find us some instruments too?"

"_Si, __por supuesto_. Gimme an hour or so, amigo." Juan replied with a confident smile.

Climbing up the stairs to their room, A.J. asked his brother, "I thought Juan was the super of this building. What kind of business does he run?"

"Oh, he is the super all right, but one of his sons is in show business, and another one works in the fashion industry."

"Really?"

A.J. was obviously impressed. What Rick had not told him was that one of Juan's boys worked as a stagehand on off-off-Broadway, and that another one was a street vendor pushing a garment rack to sell knock-off clothes to mostly tourists and suckers.

Waiting for Juan to bring the props, the brothers studied the documents in the personal files to pass the time.

While flipping through the performance evaluations of Rodney Hirsch, Rick's hand stopped in mid-motion. A few moments later, he returned to the previous pages and read with care.

"A.J.?" He called his brother, who was reclining on the bed next to his.

A.J. looked up from his reading materials. "What? Find anything interesting?"

"Maybe." Rick said with guarded optimism. "According to the work reviews, this guy, Hirsch, was an average employee. He wasn't sloppy or anything, but he wasn't driven or exceptional either. That is, until he landed the last assignment, and it was a big client's account he handled. All of a sudden, his boss started giving him glowing reviews, and it looks like this so-so accountant was chosen to lead the team for the big client—Kessler account."

"Kessler…" A.J. repeated the name that he had heard before. "The old man who walked in on me when I was looking for these files—he said the Kessler account is now active again."

Rick and A.J. pondered for a while on the implications of the facts they had gathered.

"So, this Kessler account must be tied to the mob, and Hirsch must have been a willing participant in falsifying the financial documents," speculated A.J.

"And Hirsch's supervisor's just as guilty for sure. Maybe more. He put him in the lead position and gave him rave reviews, not to mention other incentives, I guess, like raises and bonuses, to compensate for the illegal activities he asked him to do," added Rick.

A.J. nodded his head in agreement. "What's the name of Hirsch's supervisor?"

"Beckett."

"William Beckett?" A.J. saw a surprised look on Rick's face. "The old man we saw at the firm mentioned his name while talking about the Kessler account. So, it seems Beckett still has a hand in this matter."

"Yeah. Hirsch probably got eliminated 'cause he got either too greedy or scared and unreliable. Ira might have witnessed the hit or had some evidence, but now that he's dead, the mob's confident enough to reopen the Kessler account again…"

A.J. stood up from his bed.

"Where're ya goin'?" asked Rick.

"I'm gonna make a call to Janet," said A.J. There was no telephone in their spartan room. "She's not going to like what I'm about to ask her to do, and because I'm going to call her collect, she'll like it even less."

_But you know you're gonna get away with it_, thought Rick. He knew A.J. knew that he had a certain hold over her. For that matter, he had a hold over lots of women, Rick acknowledged begrudgingly.

"Don't be too long. Juan should be here pretty soon." Rick reminded his brother. "But since you're making a call, why don't you call Mrs. Crenshaw, too?"

"I was going to do that anyway."

"Keep it on a need-to-know basis though. She doesn't have to know all the details of the mob's involvement just yet."

A.J. threw him an annoyed look. "Rick, I'm the sensitive one in our partnership. I know how to communicate with our client on a delicate subject."

Rick shrugged. "But sometimes you can't keep a secret."

"What? When…?" A.J. broke off to take a deep breath to calm down. "All right, give me an example. Which incident are you referring to, huh? When did I violate someone's privacy _if_ it ever happened?"

"Well…" Rick drawled. "One day we were playing catch with Dad in the living room, and you missed the ball he tossed, and it knocked off and broke one of Mom's favorite figurines from Paris, or somewhere in Europe."

"When we were… Dad was still alive? How long ago was it?"

"You were still in kindergarten. Anyway, Dad asked us to keep it a secret until he caught Mom in a really good mood to break it to her so he wouldn't get into too much trouble. But as soon as she found the trinket missing and started peppering us with questions about it, you broke down and spilled the beans." Rick chuckled at the old memory.

A.J. was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded subdued, "I don't remember that..."

Rick detected an abrupt change in his brother's mood but pretended not to notice it. "Boy, was she mad!" he continued with an ear-to-ear grin. "She was so mad at Dad I thought steam would come out from her ears."

"So, what happened?"

"That night, Mom gave you an extra scoop of ice cream for dessert—for being honest, she said though I'd call it squealing. I got only one scoop, and Dad got none. Poor Dad, he looked like Marlowe watching us eat a steak dinner or barbeque. Man, he was in the doghouse for a few days 'cause he'd let us play catch inside, a big no-no in her book, and tried to corrupt her innocent baby."

He grinned at his brother and shrugged. "She knew by then I was beyond salvation, like Dad."

With the power of suggestion, A.J. almost could see the clear image of their younger selves at the dinner table with their crestfallen father intently watching them savor every spoonful of his favorite dessert.

The mental image, factual or imagined, brought a smile on his lips. He turned aside to hide it from Rick and left the room to make calls, bounding down the stairs chuckling.

After placing phone calls to Janet and Mrs. Crenshaw, A.J. caught up with Juan on his way back to his room and helped him carry the instrument cases.

Rick and A.J. surveyed the clothes spread on one of the beds. Rick picked a porkpie, white jeans and a striped shirt; A.J., a newsboy cap, black pants, pale blue shirt with a white collar and a vest.

As for the instruments, Rick chose the guitar because he had rudimentary skills to play it if he was forced to. He groaned when he saw A.J. reaching for the clarinet case.

"You're not gonna take that with you, are ya?"

"Why not?" A.J. pouted. "This is one of few instruments I know how to play. I used to play it in my school band, remember?"

"Don't remind me," grumbled Rick.

A.J. insisted on hailing a cab to select a right driver for this trip. He did not want a young, aggressive driver like the one they'd had from the airport. He settled on the plump, avuncular type this time.

As the brothers settled in the backseat of the cab, the driver turned around and asked with a pleasant smile, "Where to?"

"Alley Cat Club in Harlem," said Rick and gave him the street address that he'd looked up in the phonebook.

The driver's smile was gone instantly. "You sure that's the right address?"

""Course I'm sure!"

The cabbie stared at him for a few seconds. "Okay, I'm going out on a limb here—you're not from around here, are you?"

"Why's everyone say that?" muttered Rick. To the cabbie, he said, "Don't worry about us. We know what we're doin'."

The cabbie shrugged and turned to face forward to start driving. "I sure hope so, but it's your funeral."

A.J. poked Rick's side and whispered to him, "I wish people would stop saying that."

The cab moved at a decent speed in the notorious New York City congestion. The Simon brothers watched recognizable landmarks, such as The New York Palace Hotel and St. Patrick's Cathedral, pass by as they drove up from midtown to upper Eastside. Driving north on Madison, the driver pointed out that Central Park was one block west or on their left though it was impossible to miss this real estate. It was a vast, verdant oasis in the middle of a metropolis made of concrete and steel.

Their northward journey continued. Eventually, the driver announced, "We're in Harlem now. We'll be arriving at the club in about five, ten minutes."

"That's great," Rick nodded. "After you drop us off, could you circle around the neighborhood slowly a couple, three times till we come out of the joint?"

"Why do I wanna do that?" asked the cabbie suspiciously.

"We need a ride back. And I'll pay you in advance."

The driver peered into the rearview mirror to take another look at his fares in the backseat. After a few moments, he concluded they couldn't be dumb enough to rob the place and use him as a getaway driver, so he said with a sigh, "Oh, all right. But if you don't come back out in fifteen minutes, I'm leaving."

"Fair enough." Rick glanced at the meter and paid double and added generous gratuities.

The cab slowed down and stopped in front of Alley Cat. If it hadn't been for the signage, Rick and A.J. would have thought it was just another condemned building. Rick got off the taxi after his brother and tipped his hat, "Won't be long."

The cabbie took off in a hurry without looking back. A.J. did not take it as a good omen. If Rick was worried or anxious, he didn't show it.

"Let me do the talking, all right?" He said with confidence he had very little of.

He pushed open the door and, with a swagger, walked into the club. A.J. followed him with trepidation.


	9. Chapter 9

When they realized someone entered their club, the people inside abruptly suspended their animate chatters. All eyes were upon the Simon brothers, only two pale faces among the dark ones, ranging from golden to purplish black in hue. The tension between the two groups was almost palpable, and no one spoke or moved for a few moments.

A man sitting at the piano finally broke the silence. "You two bill yourselves as Snow White & Scarecrow when you do a gig?"

Although he tried not to react to the insult, A.J.'s face turned red as the people around him and his brother erupted into laughter.

Rick was self-conscious about his skinny frame just as much as A.J. was about his inability to get a decent tan but managed to keep a poker face. "If you think it'll help us get a gig here."

A couple of women left their table and came up to the brothers swaying their hips provocatively. They stood only a few paces away from Rick and A.J. as they appraised them with naked curiosity and lust.

The shorter of the two women, slender but with a nice hourglass body and straightened hair, came closer to A.J., almost toe-to-toe.

"You ever had a black girlfriend, honey?" She placed her hand on his chest and gently caressed him, whispering, "If not, you don't know what you're missing, baby."

His blush deepened to crimson.

The other woman was taller, more buxom and voluptuous—the kind of woman Rick would go for under ordinary circumstances. In heels, she was almost as tall as he. She gave him the once-over yet again.

"You may be kinda wiry, but I bet you're lean and mean, a real tough guy. Ain't I right?"

She pressed her index finger on his thorax and slowly ran it down till it met his belt buckle. She hooked the finger around the belt and tugged at it. "Wanna show me how tough you are, tiger?" She made a seductive growling sound.

Rick was wise enough not to respond to her blatant come-on. She turned her head and spoke to someone in the back of the dimly lit room.

"Hey, Bo. Why don't you audition 'em to see if they got the right stuff? If you don't, maybe I will—I wanna see how they handle their instruments."

Among a smattering of chuckles, a man—Bo, presumably—yelled, "Shut your mouth, Gwen! And keep your clothes on."

She shot daggers at him clear across the room but returned to her table.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Rick could see Bo sitting at one of the round tables. He was a tall, scrawny man with spidery long limbs.

"Turn around, march right back to where you came from, pale face. You ain't got no business here." Bo glared at Rick.

Rick ignored the obvious hostility. "Ira Cohen said you might consider getting some new blood. Remember him?"

"I don't know…"

As soon as Bo started to say, the man sitting at the keyboard interrupted him.

"Bo, don't you remember him? A white guy—an old white guy who used to sub for Chuck?"

"Chuck?"

"Man, don't you remember anything? Charles Van Dusky. He quit playin' only about four or five years ago 'cause his arthritis was getting bad."

The Simon brothers' hearts leaped with excitement when they heard the piano man mention Van Dusky. Could it be the Dusky Ira had referred to on his deathbed?

Bo snorted. "'Course I remember: the geezer." He then resumed glowering at Rick. "So, you know a guy who played here a few times, or so you say. It ain't prove nuthin' unless you bring him here to vouch for you."

"We met Ira in San Diego, and he passed away since then." Rick kept his cool. "If you tell us where we can find this Chuck, maybe we'll be able to ask him to introduce us to his former band."

"Get lost, cracker. I ain't got nuthin' more to say to you."

While Rick and Bo were talking and sizing each other up, the straight-haired woman led A.J. to one of the empty chairs and made him sit down. She sat in his lap and eyed the scuffed instrument case he had.

"What you got there, bub?" She purred.

"A licorice stick; an oldie but goodie." A.J. wondered if it was getting hot, or it was just he.

"Oh, I'm sure it's a good one, and I bet you drive girls wild when you play." She whispered into his ear and snuggled closer, draping her slim arms over his shoulders and pressing her breasts against his chest.

The fact that he was becoming aroused made him even more uncomfortable than before. He fervently prayed that her boyfriend or someone carrying a torch for her was not present in the room as he heard Bo telling his brother to leave the premises but not in such a polite way.

Just then the door of the main entrance burst open and someone rushed in: a strapping black man in a muscle shirt.

"Lakeisha!" He barked at the woman in A.J.'s lap. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She swiveled her head to the sound of the voice. "That's none of your business, Jamaal." She said curtly. "I told you, we're through, so bug off!"

Just to show that she was through with her boyfriend, Lakeisha clung to A.J. tighter and planted a kiss on his lips.

The kiss was neither tender nor romantic. It was so fierce he felt like he was being assaulted. He desperately tried to free himself from her embrace, which at the moment seemed more like a death trap, while helplessly watching her jilted lover close in on him.

With one sweep of his powerful arm, Jamaal knocked Lakeisha off A.J.'s lap and lifted him out of the chair effortlessly like he was merely a rag doll.

Just when Jamaal's right hand curled into a fist, Rick asserted himself, trying to mediate the situation.

"Hey, you can't…"

He was airborne before he finished his sentence—Jamaal had punched him instead of his brother and flung his body. He crashed into a nearby table. As he sat up, he saw A.J. hurtling towards another table, only a couple away from the one he had landed on.

Jamaal was nowhere near done with his sparring session, moving swiftly to feed A.J. more knuckle sandwiches, but another man in the room intervened. "Hey, man. You can't bust up this place just because your woman duh…"

Jamaal punched him too, which didn't sit well with the rest of the men in the room. They jumped to their feet to restrain him, and in no time, an all-out fight broke out. The only ones who were not involved in the brawl were the Simons, Bo and the two women.

"Look what you done to my place." Bo glowered at the brothers. "You gonna pay for this and much, much more…"

"Shut up, Bo," shouted Lakeisha. "It's not their fault."

Gwen bristled. "Don't talk to him like that!"

"I talk to anybody any way I want, so shut up, Gwen!"

Gwen apparently liked being dissed a whole lot less—she shoved Lakeisha so hard she ended up on her rear, but she didn't stay down long. Lakeisha sprang right back on her feet and slapped Gwen. And thus, a fight was on between the two women.

Bo, who seemed to be a brother or relative of Gwen's, tried to break it up. "Knock it off, you two! You…"

"Shut up, Bo!"

"Butt out!"

The women yelled simultaneously. Gwen drove her elbow in his midriff; Lakeisha stomped on his foot.

Seeing Bo staggering in pain, Rick and A.J. found an opening to break out of the place. They picked up their hats and instruments and ran out of the club like a couple bats out of hell.

As they got outside, they went to the opposite ends of the street to keep an eye out for their ride. Within two, three minutes, Rick spotted and flagged it down while yelling his brother's name to get his attention. He opened the backdoor before the cab came to a full stop. The brothers piled into the back of the cab.

"Okay, let's go! Step on it, pal!" shouted Rick.

Shifting the gear to drive, the cabbie glanced at the reflection of his passengers on the rearview mirror. He saw some telltale signs of physical altercation on their faces and remarked dryly, "I take that your audition didn't go so well."

He navigated his vehicle out of the rough neighborhood and cruised out of Harlem, which made the Simon brothers feel much better despite the painful souvenirs.

"Hey, could you stop at the next pay phone? I need to look up someone," said Rick.

"Someone who lives in a safer community, I hope." The cabbie said resignedly. He pulled over to the curb after a couple of blocks and pointed ahead, "There you go."

Rick picked up the white pages in the phone booth and searched Charles, Chuck, or C. Van Dusky. There were only few names under Van Dusky, and none of them was the one he was hoping to find. Just to be sure, he also looked under Dusky. Still no hits. His shoulders sagged, as did his spirits.

"Rick?" A.J. was standing right behind him. "Let's try the yellow pages. Ira said, 'I must go back to Dusky's.' It could mean a store, or a restaurant, you know, a place of business."

Sure enough, there was one entry under D: Dusky's Pawnshop since 1950, proprietor, Chuck Van Dusky. Rick tore the page off the phone book and returned to the cab. He showed the ad on the page to the driver.

"Can you drive us to this shop?"

The cabbie read the street address. "Sure, but it's in Bronx. We gotta go back up north again."

"You don't mind, do you?"

"No, not all. As we say, the customer's always right."

The cabbie turned the car around and started driving north again. Rick, who never liked driving or riding in silence, initiated a small talk.

"Can I ask you a question, uh…?"

"Mort. Call me Mort, and sure, what would you like to know, Rick?"

Mort had obviously learned their names by listening to snippets of the conversations between the Simons.

"Are you from New York, Mort?"

"Yes and no. I'm from Poughkeepsie, NY, but not from New York City."

"But you've lived here long time."

"Almost twenty years."

"All right, so maybe you can tell me this—why do you think New Yorkers are always in a hurry?" In the rearview mirror, Rick saw Norm's eyebrows go up questioningly. "The motorists for instance. They honk at you if you don't start moving the instant the light turns green."

"I guess most of us get cranky in a traffic jam, which is the norm in this city."

"And then there are pedestrians. When someone bumps into you, they never apologize, and by the time you say, 'excuse me,' they're already half a block away."

"When I first came to the City, I thought the people here were pretty rude too." Mort chuckled. "But I got used to it over the time. You must understand that personal space is premium here with seven million plus people in the city. The streets are crowded, all the trains, buses, subways are crowded… You can't keep apologizing for invading someone's personal space on a jam-packed commuter train, or in the Christmas Eve crowd at Macy's."

"Okay, sure." Rick paused for a moment. "Hey, do you say Long Island, or, Lawn Guyland? LaGwardia, or, LaGuardia? And what the hell is 'schlepping'?"

A.J. groaned when Mort the driver let out a hearty laugh. Sometimes sharing a ride with Rick was worse than driving an inquisitive four-year-old.


	10. Chapter 10

Dusky's Pawnshop occupied a space on a street that housed several mom-and-pop retail stores. Although Mort said the Simons had paid him more than they should for their jaunt, Rick insisted on giving him an additional tip and thanked him again for his service. In return, Mort gave them a business card and told them to call him whenever they needed a ride in the city.

The brothers opened the door of the pawnshop and stepped inside no knowing what exactly they would find.

"Afternoon, gentlemen." An old man with olive complexion and sparse white hair greeted from behind the counter. "You buying, selling or browsing?"

"None of the above."

Rick's reply puzzled the old man. "Oh?"

"You're Charles Van Dusky, aren't you?"

"That's right." Van Dusky sounded puzzled.

"We're here to talk about your old friend, Ira Cohen."

"Ira!" The old man's face lit up. "Where is he now? How's he doing?"

"I'm sorry to inform you that he passed way recently," said A.J. respectfully. "We're private investigators from San Diego. I'm A.J. Simon, this is my brother, Rick."

"He's gone?" Van Dusky whispered. "You came here all the way from San Diego to tell me that?"

A.J. shook his head. "His widow found some documents in his safe deposit box that led us to New York and your shop. One of the items she found was a torn claim ticket." He skipped the details the old man did not have to know. "Did Ira leave something with you before he disappeared nine years ago?

Still mystified, Van Dusky simply nodded. "Got the ticket with you?"

A.J. took out the torn ticket from Ira Cohen's safe deposit box and offered it to Van Dusky. When he placed it on his hand, he noticed that the palm was distinctively whiter than the back of the hand, and it was clearly contoured.

The pawnshop owner saw the young PI looking at his palm and smiled a weary smile. "Yeah, I'm part black—some folks might call me 'high yeller.'"

"Excuse me, I didn't mean to…"

A.J. started to apologize, but Van Dusky shook his head to indicate it was unnecessary.

"That's all right, son. You said you and your brother are private investigators. It's your second nature to observe and notice anything unusual." He lowered his gaze to the ticket in his hand. "Ira knew I'm a mongrel and didn't care. I guess us musicians are lucky 'cause divisive things like race, religion, social status don't matter to us, and we respect each other so long as we can play and create great music together."

He punched a key on the cash register to open the till. He reached in and pulled out a piece of paper—a torn half of a claim ticket. When he put the two halves together, they were a perfect match despite the different degrees of discoloration and fraying.

"I was hoping Ira would come back in person to reclaim his possession, but…" Van Dusky trailed off. "Please wait for a few moments. I'll be right back."

He disappeared into the backroom. A couple of minutes later, he returned to the counter carrying some object.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Rick.

"Yes, it's an urn."

There was no doubt in the brothers' minds that it contained the ashes of Rochel, Ira's wife. This was not what they had hoped to find here, and they felt somewhat deflated.

"Why did Ira leave it here?" asked Rick.

"He didn't say, I didn't ask." Van Dusky replied. "I'm sure there's a good reason for it, but he wasn't ready to tell me, I imagine."

He was still holding the urn, waiting patiently for the brothers to take it. Rick reluctantly received it. He remembered seeing another urn on the mantle at Mrs. Crenshaw's home and figured it had her late husband's ashes. He was not sure how she would react to receiving the remains of Ira's ex-wife.

"So, what're you gonna do with it?" Van Dusky asked out of curiosity.

"Give it to our client, I suppose," said Rick.

"Thank you for assisting us in our investigation." A.J. minded his manners as usual. "Do we owe you anything, Mr. Van Dusky?"

"Nothing." The pawnshop owner shook his head. "It has no value except for the family of the deceased. Good luck on your investigation. I hope you'll find whatever you're looking for."

A.J. thanked him again and opened the door for Rick.

As he walked out of the door, Rick's toes caught the threshold, and he nearly tripped. He desperately tried to keep his balance and managed to stay upright without dropping the item he was carrying. The jerky motions caused something inside the urn to shift, and both he and A.J. heard a muffled _ka-thunk_ when a hard object hit the interior wall of the urn. They stared at each other for a moment then walked right back inside the pawnshop.

Seeing the Simon brothers make a U-turn, Van Dusky asked quizzically, "Did you forget anything, boys?"

Rick shook his head. "No. There's something inside this urn. We need to empty it. Do you have a copy of a newspaper or a drop cloth we can borrow?"

Van Dusky led them to the backroom and handed Rick the latest edition of the New York Times.

Rick spread the paper on the worktable and carefully poured the ashes out of the urn. The object inside got lodged at the mouth of the vessel, so he manipulated its position to get it out. It was a metal box not unlike a toolbox but much smaller. It had a small combination lock that was no more than a couple of inches.

"Do you have a lock cutter or something similar by any chance?" asked Rick.

"Well, I think so. Let me…"

A.J. cut Van Dusky off. "Wait. I don't think we need it."

Rick and Van Dusky looked at him waiting for the explanation.

A.J. took out his notebook and turned several pages. "Ah! There it is." He smiled at his brother, "Rick, try these numbers: 6-27-19."

"Is this Rochel's date of birth, do you know? June 27, 1919?" Rick asked Van Dusky while turning the dial of the lock.

Sighing, the old man turned his sad eyes to him, "Son, these days, I can barely remember my own birthday."

At the last turn of the dial, the lock became disengaged with a click. Once the lock was removed, Rick and A.J. eagerly opened the box. In it were several rings and a small bundle wrapped in a plastic bag and sealed with duct tape. One of the rings, apparently a wedding band, had turned black and been misshapen by the intense heat of the arson fire that consumed the Cohen residence. Rick removed the plastic bag and broke the seal with his pocketknife. When he shook the bag, two rolls of film tumbled out into his palm.

"Bingo!" He rejoiced. "Did you know there was this stuff hidden inside the urn?"

"Certainly not!" Van Dusky sounded a little put off. "Why would I want to desecrate someone's remains?"

"He didn't mean that, Mr. Van Dusky," said A.J. He was not so elated as his brother for he knew the film was nine years old and probably had endured several hot, humid summers. "We're just wondering if Ira gave you any inkling of the importance of these items. Did he ever ask you to turn this in to the police if something happened to him?"

"No, nothing of the sort." Van Dusky paused cocking his head. "But I thought it was kind of odd when he asked me to keep the urn in the fridge." He pointed at the refrigerator by the sink in the backroom.

Suddenly, a brand new ray of hope lifted A.J.'s spirit. So, Ira had had some knowledge of proper film preservation. He and Rick might be able to develop the film after all.

Rick carefully put the ashes back into the urn. The brothers thanked the old man yet again, and as they left his shop, they promised him they would be in touch.


	11. Chapter 11

On their way back to their room, Rick and A.J. bought photo developing chemicals, photo paper and vats so that they would be able to see what was on the rolls of film right away.

Back at their room in the tenement house Juan managed, the brothers prepped the cramped bathroom to use it as a makeshift darkroom. They put up a clothesline with pins across the shower rail for drying the negatives and the paper. There was only a sink, no counter, in the bathroom, so they placed the vats for developer, stop bath, and fixer in the bathtub. They'd use the sink for washing.

The next few hours, they worked diligently, uttering a few words when necessary. Their hard work came to fruition as the images on the prints started to emerge.

"A.J.?" There was an undercurrent of excitement in Rick's whisper. "Is this…?"

"Yes. It's a ledger, most likely with falsified entries."

They continued working at a brisk pace to make prints for two rolls' worth. They were so absorbed in their work, they did not notice when there was a knock on the door.

"Rick? Are you there?"

It was Juan Suarez.

"Yeah, I'm here. Just a minute, okay? I'll be right out!"

Rick finished the task at hand and exited the bathroom carefully so as not to disturb the darkroom integrity. He opened the door and said to the super, "Sorry, Juan. We've been busy. So, what's up?"

Juan looked at him quizzically. "Didn't you see my note? I left it under the door."

"A note?" He was about to say, 'what note,' but found a crumpled sheet of paper on the floor by the wall. "Oh gee, I'm sorry. We were in such a hurry we didn't see it. What did you want to tell us?"

"A beautiful lady called and left a message for your _hermano_, Rick. Her name's Janet, she said. _Es muy guappa_!"

"How can you tell she's pretty over the phone?" asked Rick.

"I just know. I'm right, no?"

"Yeah, she's a real foxy lady, but what's the message?"

"She said, 'Tell A.J. to call me back right away. It's very, very important.' She called many, many times."

"What's so important, Juan?" asked A.J. as he came out of the bathroom with the last batch of prints. "Did she tell you what's going on?"

Juan shook his head. "No. _No sé nada_. Come down to my unit, you can use my phone. No charge!" He flashed a toothy smile.

Rick and A.J. took up on his offer. It was still four o'clock on the West Coast, so they had plenty of time to call Janet before the quitting time. After Juan excused himself from his apartment to give them some privacy, A.J. dialed the number of Janet Fowler's office.

At the first ring, she answered, "Hello? Janet Fowler."

"Hi, Janet. It's me, A.J…"

Janet did not let him finish his sentence. "Thank goodness, you're safe! Where have you been? I've been on pins and needles waiting for you to call me back!"

"Calm down, Janet, we're okay. Most of all, we think we got whatever it takes to prosecute the guilty party. We have photos of a cooked book and the negatives. All we have to do is turn over the evidence to…"

"No!" Janet cut him off again. "You haven't, have you? I've been trying so hard to reach you to tell you not to do that."

A.J. and Rick, who had been listening on the conversation, stared at each other uncomprehendingly.

"Janet, what are you talking about?" asked A.J.

"Well, have you?" Janet was insistent.

"Turning over the evidence? No, not yet." He hurriedly continued before getting interrupted again. "Do you mind telling me what's going on?"

"I contacted a few NYPD detectives and federal agents there like you asked me to and found a federal prosecutor named Dawson who had closely worked on this case."

"What got you so riled up?" asked Rick.

"According to Dawson, the police and the Feds pressured Rodney Hirsch to produce some evidence for a very powerful crime family's racketeering and money laundering schemes. We're talking about an offshoot of the Gambino family here. They finally got him to tell where the cooked book was hidden and then raided his office. And Hirsch was to be their star witness."

"Then he got killed. But what's the problem? The police and the Feds still have a solid piece of evidence for indictment, don't they?" Rick was uncertain why Janet was so upset.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Rick." She sounded irritated or frustrated when Rick interrupted her. "The ledger they had seized disappeared from the evidence room, but that's the least of their problem."

The Simons were no longer sure if they wanted to hear the rest.

"Hirsch must have known or at least feared there might be someone on the force or among the Feds working for the mob, took pictures of the ledger and asked Ira Cohen to keep the film for him without telling him the real reason."

"But Ira put two and two together and called the authorities after Hirsch was killed?" A.J. conjectured.

"Yes. Ira called Dawson's office to let them know about the rolls of film. He was afraid to get in touch with the police because of what had happened to his colleague. He thought there might be a corrupt cop working for the perpetrator. Unfortunately, Dawson and his superior were out of office on a business trip when he called."

"By the time they got back, his wife had been killed." A.J. speculated.

"Yes, but she was only a collateral damage. It was Ira's day off—he was supposed to be at home with her. It happened when he was out running errands, like placing the rolls of film in his safe deposit box at the bank."

Rick and A.J. now fully understood why Janet had been so desperate to reach them.

"So he knew there was an informant on the federal level as well. There was a lot of confusion after the murder and the arson, and it took Dawson's office a few extra days to locate Ira. Dawson did whatever it took to earn his trust, and eventually, he came around and said he'd consider turning over the film and testifying in court. The federal prosecutors promised to place him in the witness protection program."

"Then his brother, David, died, and he skipped town," said Rick. It was a statement, not a supposition.

"Uh-huh. He tried to cover up his track, but he's an amateur. He wasn't mindful of the paper trail and the phone log, so the Feds sent a U.S. Marshal to Portland to protect him though he wasn't in the program officially…"

"But there was a leak in the prosecutors' office, and the mob sent their enforcer, or enforcers to Benson, thinking Gunderson and Ira were staying at the same hotel together. Gunderson was dead by 11:00 a.m., hours before the time for their meeting…"

A.J. felt like he was trapped in a short horror story titled, _Monkey's Paw_, in which a mummified simian paw wreaked havoc on a hapless family by granting their wishes in the cruelest, most hideous ways. The evidence of Kessler account, whether in the form of ledger or film, seemed to be a harbinger of misfortune and tragedy for whoever possessed it.

"Now you know why I'm so worried about you." Janet said softly, a small chink in her fierceness revealing underlying vulnerability. "Needless to say, Dawson will want the film if he gets a whiff that you got it, and, as a county A.D.A., I should side with him, but, as your friend, I don't want you to give it him. I don't want you to end up in a dark alley with bullet holes in your heads, or knives in the chests."

"We can mail it to him anonymously," suggested Rick.

"Won't work." Janet sounded dejected. "All you got is only photographs, which need authentication. Ira would have been a powerful witness if the case had gone to trial. With him gone, someone—a third party who has no connection with the accounting firm—will have to back up the authenticity by explaining how the pictures have come into their possession and do a damn good job of it. And the best they can do is build only a circumstantial case around it."

"And that means Mrs. Crenshaw has to testify in court as well because she's the one who got the ball rolling."

"Yes." Janet confirmed Rick's comment. "And since you told the gang's underlings about your involvement in this case when you were in Portland, they know you're responsible for dredging up this whole thing. If they learn the Feds received the photos of the ledger, you'll be marked men, if not already, whether you cooperate with the prosecution or not. On top of that, the new evidence could be 'misplaced' again—it happened before."

"What about William Beckett?" asked A.J. "He supervised the team of CPAs on the Kessler account. He must have handpicked Hirsch for this work."

"Yes, the federal prosecutors know that. They did everything to persuade him to cooperate; they cajoled, they threatened to no avail. A.J., he's no fool—he knows what happens if he double-crosses the crime family."

"Oh, that's just great," grumbled Rick. "So you're telling us this is a case of 'damned if you do, damned if you don't'?"

Three of them became quiet contemplating the predicament of the brothers.

"Hey, hold on a sec. Maybe, there is a way out…" Rick had a look that instantly put A.J. in the self-preservation mode.

"I don't like it," declared A.J.

"What do you mean you don't like it? I haven't told you anything."

"I still don't like it. When you smile like that, I get butterflies in my stomach."

"Oh, don't worry. I guarantee you, it's a lot safer than other alternatives."

"Ha! Isn't that what the engineer of Hindenburg said?"

"Hey, guys!" Janet sounded annoyed. "What's going on?"

Rick brushed A.J. aside to monopolize the phone receiver.

"Listen, Janet. I need some more information from you. You may have it already right at your fingertips…"

His tiny smile turned into a full-fledged grin.


	12. Chapter 12

From a vantage point, A.J. kept an eye on the foot traffic on the street where Mamma Rosa's restaurant in Little Italy was located. It was one of the known haunts of Vincenzo Tedesco, a powerful figure in one of the rival gangs of the crime family that controlled Kessler Corporation. He and Rick had been on the watch for the last two days with no luck.

A couple of blocks ahead, Rick poked his head out from a side street and saw his brother shake his head. He wanted to believe this plan he had devised would work, but his confidence had been waning as the time went by. Time was not on his and A.J.'s side with a couple of muscles on their tail.

Suddenly, A.J. waved his arm to give a signal Rick had been waiting for. Rick withdrew deep into the shadow between two buildings.

A.J. took one more glance at the picture of Tedesco that he had found in an old magazine and was convinced that the man walking by was the one he was after. He began tailing him and his men not so discreetly. He took a sideway glance at the spot where Rick had been only moments ago as he walked by, but there was no trace of him now.

Before he took another step, he saw two of Tedesco's men blocking his way. He hesitated for a second then muttered, "Excuse me," trying to pass by them, but one of the men stopped him by putting his hand on his shoulder. His grip was like a vise.

"Hey, you wanna talk to me or sump'n, junior?" It was not a question but a challenge or threat.

"No, not particularly—unless you charge me a toll to stroll down this public sidewalk."

The vise grip on A.J.'s shoulder tightened as a result of his lippy remark, making him wince. His head swiveled at the sound of tongue clucking.

"That's no way to talk to your elders, son." Tedesco's voice was unexpectedly gentle and pleasant, almost feminine. Somehow, it made A.J.'s skin crawl. "If you wanna talk to me, don't be fresh. I don't appreciate wiseguys."

A.J. licked his lips nervously.

"So, is there anything you wanna tell me?" The mobster looked and sounded like everybody's favorite uncle, and yet, A.J. had to fight hard not to shudder.

"Well, um… As a matter of fact…" He wondered where his brother was.

"No. He wants a piece of me."

Rick was right behind A.J., materializing seemingly out of nowhere. He yanked his brother backward by the scruff of his neck and spun him around.

"No! I'm…" was all A.J. could say before Rick bopped him about his head. He staggered. Just when he thought he could keep his balance to remain upright, Rick struck him again. This time, he went down and hit the ground of a narrow alleyway.

Rick grabbed the lapels of A.J.'s jacket to pull him up on his feet. His brother was dazed but still very much conscious.

A.J. had been disgruntled when Rick had twisted his arm to take this role in their little con, but now he was relieved not to be in Rick's shoes. Growing up, the brothers had had numerous fights, and in some of them, punches had been thrown, but he was not certain if he would ever be able to mercilessly deck his own brother even when a certain situation called for it. He knew Rick could pull it off, but he also knew his brother was still holding back.

Rick pulled his brother closer as A.J. wiggled his index finger signaling him to come closer.

In a stage whisper, A.J. uttered in Rick's ear with a smirk on his face, "You…hit like a girl…"

Some of the men around the brothers tittered nervously, and a round of guffaws followed. Rick saw A.J. look him straight in the eye as if to say, "_Go ahead. Take your best shot_."

So he slugged him before his mind got cluttered with emotions and conscience.

A.J.'s eyes rolled up, his body went limp.

When Rick let go of him with a little shove, A.J. collapsed on the ground.

"Punk," he spat out.

The men around him were silent for a while. Then one of them—Vincenzo 'Vinny' Tedesco—asked the question that might have been on everybody else's mind, "If you don't mind me asking, who're you? And who the hell is he?"

Rick looked up with a cocky smile. "I'm Lance Whitaker." He and A.J. had worked on a case in which Whitaker had been involved in the recent past. He was quite positive Whitaker had fled to Mexico to avoid murder raps, and that it was safe to assume his identity just in case the mobster checked up on his résumé.

"This," he kicked the side of his brother lying on the ground, "is a real pain in the ass named Danny Morrison. He fancies himself as an investigative reporter."

The real Danny Morrison was truly a reporter who had worked on the Lance Whitaker case for months, but he had gone into hiding after a couple of attempts on his life.

"So, he's a leech, and you're his meal ticket?" Tedesco sounded unsure.

"Something like that." Rick bent over and grabbed the backpack A.J. had. "How he found out I'm back in the U.S., I'll never know."

He zipped open the backpack and took out a folder. "Or, this will tell me something."

Tedesco quietly observed Rick not knowing what to make of this little drama unfolding in front of him. He then noticed the man he knew as Lance Whitaker kept flipping the pages of some document in the folder with a frown on his face.

"I don't get this…" Rick whispered.

"Anything wrong?" Tedesco asked evenly masking his piqued curiosity.

"I was sure he was following me, writing a story about me…" Rick was mostly speaking to himself. "Rodney Hirsch? Dwight Gunderson? Who the hell are they? I didn't snuff them. Kessler account? What is this all about?" His frown lines deepened.

Hearing those names, Tedesco could no longer contain his excitement. "C-can I… May I take a look at it? Please?"

As Rick was about to hand over the folder to Tedesco, A.J. moaned and began to stir.

"Here, keep it," said Rick shoving the folder into the mobster's eager hands. "So long as I get to keep this little piece of shit, I don't care what you do with it." He put his foot on the back of A.J.

He produced a switchblade from his jeans pocket. Lance Whitaker was partial to all sorts of knives: big, small, new and shiny, old and dull. His love for this type of weapon was indiscriminate, profound and deadly.

Tedesco raised his gaze from the folder when he heard an unmistakable metallic sound of a steel blade springing out of its handle.

"You're not gonna bump him off, are you? Right here and now?" He asked Rick.

"Nah. I just wanna give him something to remember me by." Tapping his palm with the blade, Rick grinned a savage grin, hoping to look as deranged as the real Whitaker.

"Wait, uh…Lance. Can I call you Lance?"

"Sure, you can call me just about anything—I've used so many names I can't remember them all."

"Great! By the way, call me Vinny. I wanna ask you another favor, Lance." Tedesco smiled pleadingly. "Can we keep this reporter for an hour or so, just in case we need to ask him some questions about his article?"

This was the situation Rick and A.J. had hoped they would be able to avoid. They had been counting on that the mob would let them go quietly once they got what they wanted.

Rick grabbed A.J.'s arm to pull him up on his feet. "If he stays, I stay."

"Sure, sure." Tedesco's smile became wider, trying to win over Rick. "My family owns that restaurant over there. My men can escort you two there, and you can have whatever you want while waiting for me. Would you do that?"

Rick glanced at his brother. A.J.'s eyes seemed out of focus, and he prayed they'd be able to continue this charade a while longer.

"Hey, what're you talking about?" A.J. muttered. "I'm not an inanimate object. You can't keep me here, or anywhere else against my will."

Rick grinned at his brother like a wolf might just before it would go for its prey's jugular to finish it off. "Sure, buddy. If you want, I can leave you alone in this back alley," he jeered, "with your throat slit open and let you drown in your own blood. If you ask me, that's not a very pleasant way to go."

Grinning, he drew A.J. close by grabbing a handful of the shirtfront and pressed the tip of his knife on a spot right above his Adam's apple. "So, what'll it be? The choice is up to you."

He applied enough pressure on the sharp point of the blade to break the skin, his piercing icy-blue eyes reflecting no emotions. A bit of blood began to ooze from the tiny puncture.

A.J. appeared close to panicking, his eyes moving rapidly from side to side to look for a way to escape like a trapped animal, and it didn't require a lot of acting skills to look frightened. His own brother was starting to scare the hell out of him.

"Please, no…" He whispered his plea as a drop of blood trickled down on his throat.

"What's that?" said Rick taunting. "You don't wanna come with us?"

"No! I...I mean, don't kill me. Please!"

Rick's grin faded, replaced by a look of disappointment. He reluctantly dropped his hand holding the knife to his side and put the blade back in the handle.

"Hey, Vinny. I guess we're ready," said he to the mobster, but his eyes never left his brother's. "Hope your restaurant has a decent wine selection."

Tedesco signaled his men, and two of them led the Simons to the Italian restaurant. He and his remaining two henchmen slipped into one of the nearby buildings that looked like an ordinary grocery store.

It was almost two in the afternoon, and the most of the lunch crowd had left the restaurant. There were a couple of tables occupied by elderly couples, and another by a young family of four, tourists perhaps.

Entering the building from the employees' entrance to be discreet, Tedesco's men ushered Rick and A.J. to the back of the room, away from the other diners. They picked a booth in a corner, and one of them, the one with a small scar in the middle of his left eyebrow, told the brothers to have a seat.

"I'd like to use the restroom," said A.J.

"Won't work, sport. It's got no windows." The Scar laughed as if to say, "_I know what you're up to_."

"I think I'm gonna be sick." A.J. insisted.

"Oh, great," grumbled the Scar. "All right, let's go." He indicated the direction of the restroom with his hooked thumb.

"No, I'll go with him." Rick told the Scar. "He's my guest of honor."

The Scar shrugged indifferently. "Suit yourself."

Rick prodded A.J. with a little shove. As they walked down the aisle where restrooms and pay phones were situated, they spotted an emergency door at the end.

"Scrambled eggs," whispered A.J.

"'kay." Rick whispered back, confirming their next maneuver.

As soon as they entered the men's room, Rick turned around to face his brother.

"A.J., you gotta remind yourself that beating you senseless was part of our plan, it was nothing personal…"

"Sure, so is this."

A.J. delivered a swift right hook without further ado. Seeing Rick stagger and take a few steps backward, he ran out of the restroom and swung open the emergency exit, letting the alarm go off.

Rick lurched out of the bathroom with his hand over his nose and mouth. When he saw Tedesco's men running down the aisle, he waved his arm and shouted, "The entrance, the entrance!"

Seeing them turn around and head for the restaurant entrance, Rick exited the building the way his brother had taken. He knew exactly where to meet up with him.

As soon as he got to Canal Street, A.J. scanned the street up and down and found Juan's distinctive car—a beat-up Peugeot—parked only a few yards ahead. He jumped into the backseat and stayed low.

Juan looked back and cried out when he saw A.J.'s face, "_¡Dios mios!_ Who did that to you?"

"My brother," said A.J. nonchalantly. "Keep an eye out for him, Juan, and start the engine. He should be here any minute."

As A.J. uttered those words, Juan saw Rick from the corner of his eye. "Rick! Over here!"

Rick dove into the backseat and shouted, "Let's go, let's go!"

Pulling out of the parking space, Juan took a glance at Rick's reflection on the rearview mirror. "Rick, your nose is bleeding!"

"Yeah, thanks to my brother," grumbled Rick. To A.J. he said, "You didn't have to hit me so hard."

"Yes, I did," said A.J. matter-of-factly.

Juan was incredulous. "You know, you two are… uh… _¿Cómo se dice…?_"

"Loco?" Rick suggested.

"Ha!" Juan snorted. "That goes without saying."


	13. Chapter 13

A few weeks had passed since Vinny Tedesco had received the incriminating evidence against the rival gang family. Back in San Diego, Martha Crenshaw answered the door at her home and found the Simon brothers who had just returned from the airport after picking up Anna-Marie Cohen.

"Annie?" Mrs. Crenshaw seemed genuinely delighted to see her standing in front of Rick and A.J. "How good of you to come!"

"How could I not? It's so good to see you in person finally." Mrs. Cohen looked equally happy.

The two elderly women, who had never met before, spontaneously hugged each other like a couple of old friends.

Rick and A.J., half-forgotten by the ladies, followed them to the living room. Janet was seated on the couch sipping tea from a dainty cup with a floral pattern. She stood up to greet the guests.

"Janet, this is Mrs. Anna-Marie Cohen," Mrs. Crenshaw made an introduction, "Annie, this is Janet Fowler, the assistant D.A. I told you about."

Janet extended her arm to Anna-Marie. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cohen. I heard so much about you."

"You too, Janet. And please, call me Annie—all my friends do." Anna-Marie ignored Janet's hand and gave her a hug. "Thank you for all that you've done for Martha and Ira."

While the women were getting acquainted with each other, Rick hung back feeling too awkward to join their feminine chatters. It seemed to him women sometimes talked in codes that needed deciphering. A.J. was better at making small talk with them, but he was, at the moment, also quiet, just uttering a few words here and there to Janet.

In about five minutes or so, which felt like forever to Rick, Mrs. Crenshaw announced, "Why don't you have a seat and get comfortable, everyone? It's almost noon, so I'm going to fix something simple like sandwiches if you don't mind."

A.J. was about to decline the offer politely, but Rick beat him to it. "Sure, sounds good. I'm kinda hungry."

"I have cold cuts: turkey, ham, roast beef, Swiss cheese, Munster, American…"

"Whatever you're having is fine, Mrs. Crenshaw," said A.J. hoping that Rick would follow his example.

"I'd like a couple of roast beef sandwiches. Do you have white bread? I like Wonder Bread best. I hate rye bread though. Oh, and lots of mustard and horseradish if you have 'em."

Mrs. Crenshaw chuckled softly remembering how Rick had always spoken his mind regardless of the circumstances. He hadn't changed a bit.

"What about you, Janet?"

"Anything would do. I'm not a finicky eater."

"I'll give you a hand in the kitchen, Martha," said Mrs. Cohen.

"Oh, no. You're my guest, Annie…"

"But I'd like to help. Besides, we have so much to talk about."

Two of them were already on their way to the kitchen still arguing amiably.

Rick and A.J. had returned to San Diego a few days ago, but after a long absence, there had been so much to do at the office, they had not had time to talk to Janet since the last phone call from New York City.

"Hey." There was a lot Rick wanted to tell her, but he didn't know where to start.

"Hey yourself." Janet smiled. "That was some stunt you guys pulled off."

"Told you it'd work."

"So how did you talk one of the heavies into taking the burden off your shoulders?"

"Well, we didn't actually talk him into it per se."

A.J. grinned inwardly watching his brother start squirming under Janet's scrutiny.

"What do you mean by that?" Instantly tenderness in her voice was gone. "Don't tell me you hatched another one of your pea-brained schemes to dupe a Mafioso risking your lives!"

"It worked, didn't it?" Rick pouted. "How do you approach a guy like Tedesco? Say, 'Hi, I'm a private investigator from San Diego. I know you're a crook, but would you be interested in a piece of evidence against your rival gang's illegal activities?'"

"You're hopeless, Rick," groaned Janet in exasperation. "A.J., what did you do, really?"

A.J. shrugged. "As much as I hate to admit, Rick's right that making a proper introduction was out of question for several reasons. The most essential one though was time. We had to do it fast before the goons that had been hounding us caught up with us again."

Seeing a puzzled look on Janet's face, A.J. continued, "There were other ways to make Tedesco want to accept the evidence, sure. For instance, I thought about teasing him with a little bit of information, like leaving the photos of the ledger at his family restaurant and going back there to claim them."

"That might have worked."

"It might have, but there also was a chance that the restaurant staff would never bother to tell Vinny about the pictures. But suppose they found their way to him, and he agreed to hear what we had to say. Then he'd carefully check us out in his own way to authenticate the pictures—the mobsters are not particularly the trusting kind, you know."

Janet was getting impatient. "Okay, okay. I get it—it would have taken too much time. But you still haven't told me what you did to convince him to take the evidence."

So, Rick and A.J. took turns to tell a sanitized version of their con game, making it sound like Tom Sawyer's plot to trick his friend into taking over his tedious chore willingly. Nevertheless, it gave Janet shivers.

"It wasn't as dangerous as you think," said Rick. "There was no ill will between us, and there was so much for Tedesco to gain from the stuff. As a matter of fact, he was so excited when he saw what we got, he looked like he was about to wet his pants."

A.J. nodded. "And as a Japanese proverb goes, snakes follow the way of serpents. We were certain that Tedesco and his gang had infiltrated the media, the law enforcement and the judicial system just like their rival family and were capable of navigating through the maze to place the evidence in the right hands."

A.J. saw a smug 'I-told-you-so' smile on Rick's face. "Like minds think alike, don't they?"

"And the best part is, Tedesco managed to accomplish what the prosecutors couldn't—he persuaded Bennett to cooperate with the prosecution by leaning on him," said Rick. "He's caught between the two crime families, but at least, he's already in the witness protection program. He should have a fifty-fifty chance of dying of old age."

Janet sighed. "I don't know why I keep worrying about you knuckleheads."

The brothers giggled as though Janet had said something funny. They were plain glad that the two adversarial crime families' undivided attention was now on William Bennett's every move and word, so, in effect, they were off the hook.

Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. Cohen returned from the kitchen with a serving tray piled high with sandwiches and another tray with beverages.

"I'm sorry it took us so long to prepare your lunch," apologized Mrs. Crenshaw. "I'd like to believe you're as young as you feel, but my body buys none of it."

"No apology needed, Martha. We were just talking and catching up," said Janet.

Glancing at her watch, Mrs. Crenshaw asked Mrs. Cohen, "Oh, Annie. Could you turn on the TV? I'd like to watch the afternoon news."

Only a few minutes into the broadcast on local news, the anchorman began reporting the news from other parts of the country. The lunchtime conversation came to a halt abruptly when everyone in Mrs. Crenshaw's living room heard a reporter at the federal courthouse in New York announce, "There was a new development in this nine-year-old case of murders, racketeering, money laundering involving Salvatore DelVecchio, a well-known crime figure. After presentation of compelling evidence and credible witness's account in the preliminary hearing, we have just learned that DelVecchio will be formally arraigned…"


	14. Chapter 14

**EPILOGUE**

Rick and A.J. kept their distance from Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. Cohen as the widows together scattered the ashes of Rochel and Ira Cohen over the water of New York Harbor from the edge of Battery Park. Charles Van Dusky was also present, standing a few steps behind the ladies.

It was Mrs. Crenshaw who had suggested they bring Ira and Rochel together in this solemn ceremony, and Mrs. Cohen had picked the place. The brothers could see why Ira and Rochel Cohen had loved it here. You could catch a ferry to Ellis or Liberty Island, and if you felt like it, you could just sit back on a bench on the waterfront to watch the world go by.

"Wonder what Mrs. C's saying." Rick whispered.

"That she's happy Ira and Rochel are united once again and for good," speculated A.J.

"I never knew she had a soft side like this."

Mrs. Crenshaw had told the brothers she had purchased a plot next to her first husband's grave years before, and that Ira Cohen's heart had never belonged to her.

"What?" asked Rick when he noticed A.J. was looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face.

"Rick, until a couple of months ago, she only knew you as a fifth-grade hellion that would strike terror in her heart. The last thing she wanted in her classroom was to show you her soft side."

The two elderly women stood side by side, gazing beyond the sea in silence, their arms wrapped around each other. Van Dusky with his head bowed appeared to be saying a prayer.

After the short but touching ceremony, they walked back slowly to the bench that Rick and A.J. were occupying.

"Thank you again for inviting me and letting me say 'good-bye' to my old friend," Van Dusky told the widows.

He bade them farewell after praising the Simon brothers yet again for a job well done. Rick and A.J. took the urns from the ladies to carry for them getting ready to leave as well.

"It was a lovely ceremony, Martha," commented Mrs. Cohen. "I'm glad you've come up with the idea."

"So am I," said Mrs. Crenshaw. "But maybe it would have been even better if I'd read a poem…"

As they walked abreast, A.J. recited softly,

"Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea

"In thy forgotten grave."

Mrs. Crenshaw cocked her head pondering. "Keats?"

"Longfellow."

"I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long," Rick began to quote.

"What a lovely thought," commented Mrs. Cohen. "Who said that?"

"Hobbes in _Calvin and Hobbes_."

"Oh, Rick! Martha's right—you're an incorrigible kidder!" Mrs. Cohen could not help giggling.

"Regrettably, he's not kidding, Mrs. Cohen," said A.J. with a sigh. "He thinks Calvinism is a collection of quotes from _Calvin and Hobbes_."

They left the park to catch a cab back to their hotel. Despite the Simons', as well as Mrs. Cohen's, objection, Mrs. Crenshaw had booked their rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria. Its opulence was overwhelming and a bit daunting.

It was past four o'clock, and the afternoon was coming to a close. The brothers escorted the ladies to their room. They assumed the widows would like to take a nap or relax before dinner and tried to leave quickly, but Mrs. Crenshaw stopped them.

"Wait! I've got something for you two." She went to her bedside to pick up a large shopping bag.

"This is for you." She offered the bag to A.J. "I'm sorry, I didn't have time to have them wrapped."

Inside the bag were a huge stack of records and several books.

"I know you like books, and Mrs. Simon and Janet told me you're a music lover."

One of the books was wrapped carefully. A.J. took it out of the bag and began unwrapping. When he opened the book and took a look inside, he gasped and looked up sharply. "I can't take this, Mrs. Crenshaw!"

"Of course, you can."

"But this is James Joyce first edition!" His hands that held _Ulysses_ first edition, first impression shook with excitement.

"Books are to be read, dear. I'd rather buy it for you than let some investor who doesn't like reading have it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crenshaw. Thank you!" A.J. said hoarsely and—to his brother's horror—kissed her on the cheek, something Rick would never ever do, at least in front of someone he knew. He had the reputation to maintain.

A.J. carefully rewrapped his newly acquired treasure, placed back in the shopping bag and took out the vinyl records. They ranged from doo-wop to the Beach Boys, bebop to classical music to suit his eclectic taste in music.

He stopped going through the records when his eyes fell on one of the composition titles: _Le roi malgré lui_ by Emmanuel Chabrier. A smile started to form on his lips.

"Oh, this is just perfect!"

Rick and Mrs. Crenshaw were puzzled when A.J.'s chuckle progressed into laughter.

"I guess he really likes what you got for him, Mrs. Crenshaw."

She nodded and said, "I'm glad to hear that. And like I said, I have something for you too."

"No, that's okay. You've done enough for me already." Rick said shaking his head.

Mrs. Crenshaw had 'loaned' her accountant to him to prepare and attend the IRS audit with him. Thanks to their assistance, he had come out of the dreaded audit with only a slap on the wrist.

"Oh, don't worry, Rick. This didn't cost me a penny." She reached down into her coat pocket and produced sheets of paper. "I've been meaning to give this to you ever since I learned that you work as an investigator."

"What's that?"

"Do you recall that, at the end of school year, I asked my students to write an essay on their dream occupations?"

"May I have a look?" asked A.J. already reaching for it.

"No!" Rick snatched the essay from Mrs. Crenshaw's hand.

She smiled at Rick. "I'm so happy that your dream has come true, and the world is a better place because of it."

After a few more minutes of chatting, they agreed to have dinner together around seven, and Rick and A.J. took their leave.

When they reached their room on the same floor, A.J. unlocked the door and went in first. Rick followed and turned around to lock the door again.

"'When I grow up, I want to be a police officer or a private detective,' spelled D-E-T-E-C-T-A-V-E." Rick heard A.J. recite chuckling.

He whipped around on his heels, his hand on the jacket pocket. It was empty, and the essay Mrs. Crenshaw had given him was now in his brother's hand.

"Why, you little sneaky…" He went after him.

Rick reached out to get his brother, but he ducked, so in order to end this aggravation once and for all, he tackled him. They tumbled down on one of the beds. Although he was pinned down, A.J. was still laughing. Rick snatched the essay back from his brother and was ready to smack him.

"All right, all right! I'm sorry that I behaved the way I did. I truly am!" A.J. managed to say through giggles.

"You should be."

"I knew spending too much time with you would eventually rub off on me."

"That's the worst apology I've ever heard." Rick huffed, got off the bed, and sat down on the other one.

After a beat, A.J. asked, "So, what made you decide you wanted to be a private detective?"

Rick didn't answer. To show his brother he was shutting him out, he turned on the TV set.

"I'll find a way to get that information. I'm a detective," said A.J. sitting up.

"So am I," said Rick gruffly. "I know how to guard it."

"Or, I'll pester you till you beg me to have it."

Rick's face remained expressionless. He kept flipping the TV channels.

"Or, I'll ask Mrs. Crenshaw…"

"Don't you dare!" Rick threw A.J. a menacing glare tinged with panic. "That's blackmail!"

"Is it?" said A.J. with feigned innocence. Of course he knew Mrs. Crenshaw could recall not only what Rick had written in the essay but also a number of his indiscretions that even their mother didn't know about.

"Okay, fine…"

Rick muttered begrudgingly. A.J. smiled sensing a white flag going up.

Rick absent-mindedly picked up the essay he had written in fifth grade as if to jog his memory. "I thought about becoming a detective 'cause I solved my first missing persons case at a very young age."

"Really? Who went missing?"

"You."

"Me?"

Rick nodded his head. "Yup. You were not even two, and I must've been in second grade. One night, Mom and Dad went out for dinner and left us in a sitter's charge."

"Anybody I know?"

"I remember only her first name: Kelly. Or maybe Kelsey. Anyway, after supper and a bath, I was watching TV in my jammies, you were cuddling with her already half asleep, so she thought it was okay to let her guard down and called her boyfriend laying you down on the couch."

"And I disappeared?"

"Without a trace, poof, gone," confirmed Rick. "You were already sneaky when you were still in diapers."

"Where'd you find me?"

"If you shut up and stop interrupting me, I'll tell you." Rick sighed. "Naturally, Kelly flipped out. She opened every door, closet, cabinet, screaming your name at the top of her lungs. She searched every nook and cranny several times over. Still nothing."

Rick paused a few second to tease A.J. with suspense.

"She was bawling by then, ready to call the cops to report you missing, but I told her not to."

"Why?"

"One of the reasons was, all the doors were closed, and you were too little to open them, so I knew you were still somewhere inside. I also knew you liked snuggling and being tucked in when you were sleeping. You had tendencies to burrow under the covers. But you weren't in your bed, or anybody else's for that matter."

"And I wasn't in one of the closets either?"

"Nope." Rick grinned at his captive audience. "Remember our old house? And the laundry room's door never closed all the way?"

He could see A.J. had just had a light bulb moment and hurriedly told the rest of the story. "So I went there though Kelly swore you weren't there. But of course, I was right. I saw a tuft of hair sticking out of a pile of dirty clothes Mom had brought down from my room that afternoon."

"I was sleeping in a pile of dirty clothes?" A.J. said in disbelief. "_Your_ dirty clothes?"

"I'm tellin' ya, it's all true."

"What did Kelly say? Did you get a treat or reward for it?"

"I was bribed not to tell Mom and Dad about what'd happened that night. In a way, it was my first paid case."

"How much did you get?"

"A dollar."

"A dollar? A whole, American dollar?" A.J. asked sarcastically.

"Seemed like a lot of money back then." Rick sighed. "I spent every penny of it at a general store very next day though. I…"

A.J. shushed him when a news report on TV caught his attention. The anchorman was succinctly describing the genesis of the case Ira Cohen had been involved in.

Rick was also all ears, anxiously waiting to hear the latest.

"The jury selection for Salvatore DelVecchio case began today here in New York. This cold case has been placed on the fast-track after crucial evidence turned up mysteriously…"

"Yes!" Rick pumped his fist in the air.

He caught A.J. looking at him, smiling like a kid on his birthday. He smiled back. Why the heck not? He himself was feeling pretty darn good too.


End file.
